


Like the Phoenix Midst Her Fires

by Wynkat



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, Glam Rock RPF, Kris Allen (Musician), Tommy Ratliff (Musician)
Genre: Betrayal, Domestic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Healing, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Lambliff Big Bang 2011, M/M, Multi, Rape/Non-con References, Recovery, Revenge, Sexual Slavery, Trauma, black-mail
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 55,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynkat/pseuds/Wynkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after Danny Gokey’s surprise win on American Idol season 8 and Adam Lambert’s mysterious disappearance, the Count de Cowell arrives in LA handing out money like its candy. He’s a tall, stunningly handsome, charismatic patron of the arts with ice cold eyes. No one can get near him, but everyone wants him. They say LA is a town of secrets and lies and de Cowell might just hold the biggest secrets of all. For the Lambert family and Lambert’s old flame Tommy Ratliff, finding out what de Cowell knows will prove life changing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Build a Better Mouse Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Alpha & Beta Readers: @aislinntlc, @FloridaMinxie, @leela_cat, @orasimcha, @Thraceadams & my sounding board / husband, @Rimblemethis 
> 
> Artist: All the art work for this fic was done by the talented [banbury](http://banbury.livejournal.com/123538.html). Please drop by and give her some love. 
> 
> A/N 1: The heart of this story is based on Alexander Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo. I was in the mood for soap opera, and really is there anyone better at old school angsty schmoop than Dumas? Good lord the things he puts his characters through in the name of love! Lol Though really, the original Count of Monte Cristo is a bit like the Princess Bride… the movies *are* the good parts! 
> 
> A/N 2:: I’m sure the people represented in this story are really nice in real life, but for the purposes of *this* story… several of them are not. Not at all. Which just proves the point that this right here is *fiction and nothing else*. That said, some of the details are real and do happen. That said, some of the details are real and do happen, which is why there is a list of links at the end for more information about the important stuff.

>   
>  LA TIMES May 13th 2014   
> 

>   
>  Five years after the mysterious disappearance of American Idol contestant Adam Lambert, friends, family and fans still hold out hope that the talented singer will be found alive and return home.    
> 

>   
>  On May 13th, 2009 Adam Lambert performed on American Idol as one of the final three contestants and received some of the best feedback of his career. Audiences and critics alike seemed to adore the sexually fluid singer with a voice like an angel on steroids. Many were convinced he would be the next American Idol. When he disappeared after that night’s performance the show’s producers had no choice but to eliminate Lambert from contention. Danny Gokey went on to win the eighth season of American Idol after a disastrous set of performances by front-runner Kris Allen. Executive Producer and Judge Nigel Lithgow was quoted at the time as saying that even he “would not vote for Allen after the way he sang that night.”    
> 

>   
>  Police and FBI were unable to locate Lambert or his body. After a year of searching, officials were forced to admit they were at a standstill and listed the case as “cold” due to lack of new information. His family however, never gave up hope. Each year on the anniversary of Lambert’s disappearance they hold a vigil in front of the ABC studios complex to remind people that Lambert is still missing and remembered.    
> 

>   
>  Police continue to be at a loss as to the nature and means of Lambert’s disappearance. Anyone with information is asked to please contact the LA County Sheriff’s office. The family is offering a $250,000.00 reward for information leading to the safe return of their son.    
> 

Chapter One  
Mitchel de Cowell, the Count de Cowell  
Wednesday April 16, 2014

 

On March 13, 2014, two hundred and fifty gold embossed invitations went into the mail calling the elite and the beautiful of Hollywood to a masquerade ball in two month’s time.

The gala was a celebration in honor of Daniel Gokey and his newly formed Celestial Records. A few of those invitations went to a handful of less famous, but in the scheme of things, far more important people. Their invitations were hand delivered, each puzzled glance and confused gasp answered with calm reassurance. Yes, their presence was required and their entrance fee, the requested donation to Gokey’s favorite charity, already covered. 

Ivory paper slipped from gold lined envelopes into shaking hands as stars and wanna-bes hid their relief that the newest and hottest thing in the music world had asked them to the ball. It was like Cinderella in real life, or as close to real as LA ever got. The select few, those hand picked for reasons known only to the party’s host, found themselves sharing their confusion with each other. Music had nearly destroyed their lives, torn them apart and taken something precious from them. Now it seemed, music, or at least one of its patrons, was dragging them all back together again. 

For weeks the excited guests talked of dresses and masks, costumes to dazzle and impress the reclusive Count de Cowell at his first gala event in America. It was the Celestial Ball of course and masks were required. It was whispered that the Count intended to revive Louis XIV’s Sun King court in the heart of LA. The famous and the fame-hunters plotted their looks carefully; the still-grieving family of Adam Lambert allowed the Count’s staff to do it for them. 

On a Lear Jet high over the Atlantic, the object of everyone’s attention, Mitchel Terrance Isaac de Cowell, the Count de Cowell, was asleep for the first time in days. It was not a restful sleep; rest was not a word the Count was familiar with. His dreams were filled with the memories he refused to acknowledge in the daylight and they had only gotten worse as the Celestial Ball had grown closer. 

May 13, 2009 was a date de Cowell would remember for the rest of his life. Now five years later he had plans to create a new set of memories. That thought should make him happy. 

It didn’t.

~*~

July 2013  
de Cowell Manor  
Cambo, Northumberland, England

 

“What’s your name?” The question whispered through the air, dreamlike. A dream within a dream. 

“Drake,” the pretty boy replied. His face was like his body, all beautiful lines begging to be touched. “Drake LaBry.” 

“American,” de Cowell said, part question part statement. “From the Bayou by the sound.”

Drake smiled and nodded. “Louisiana, born and bred.”

“What brings you to England, Drake?” de Cowell asked as he popped Drake’s buttons one by one. 

Drake cleared his throat, aroused and confused all at once, if the tightness of his jeans was anything to go by. “Museum hoppin’ through Europe for a few months.”

“And you ran out of money?”

Drake blushed to the roots of his short-cropped brown hair. de Cowell chuckled and slid the shirt off Drake’s shoulders. He made a point of brushing the young man’s crotch on the way down. 

Drake’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment. “Ah… yeah. You could say that.”

“Good with your hands are you?”

Drake opened his eyes, smiled and raised his hands, palms splayed wide. They were large, the fingers long and graceful, with just a hint of stain under the nails. The skin looked firm and tight. Workman’s hands but well cared for. “Artist.”

“Ah.” de Cowell stepped back, letting his smile go predatory. “And your mouth? How are you with that?”

Drake dipped his head and then raised his eyes to look at de Cowell through his lashes, all heat with a dash of challenge. “Better.”

“Show me.”

Drake dropped to his knees with a grin and reached for de Cowell’s belt, undoing it with single-minded focus. The zipper was down and Drake’s hands cool and soft around de Cowell’s hard cock before de Cowell could take a breath. 

“Yes,” de Cowell sighed. 

He let his head drop back and gave himself over to the wet heat of Drake’s talented mouth and tongue. This was what he needed, this relief of pure abandon. No thought but the release of heat and tension. He thrust his hips forward, his cock sliding deeper into Drake’s mouth and down his throat. Drake coughed around the intrusion but didn’t push de Cowell away. He shifted his hands on de Cowell’s thighs, drawing him in, and de Cowell went with the motion, fucking into Drake’s mouth without thought, wanton and greedy. 

With a final thrust and a strangled cry, de Cowell came, pumping come down Drake’s throat. 

Drake sat back, and de Cowell watched as he wiped his mouth and stared. 

Looking down, de Cowell saw what he always saw. He was hard. Still needy and craving. 

“You’re still…”

“Three years of Viagra and cocaine will do that.” 

“Three years?” Drake stared at de Cowell. “Why?”

de Cowell shook his head. That was not a story he was prepared to tell an innocent student looking for a few bucks to make his holiday more fun. One who didn’t know how lucky he’d gotten that de Cowell had picked him up and not someone else. de Cowell shook his head again, clearing the images, and sank into the chair behind him.

“Come here.” He patted his lap. 

Drake blinked up at him, confusion and hurt chasing each other across his expressive face. 

de Cowell smiled, part charm, part lust. “Or don’t you want me to fuck that pretty ass of yours?”

Drake shivered. His eyes closed, opened and closed. When they opened again his pupils were dark with lust. de Cowell crooked a finger. “Come’ere pretty…” 

Drake crawled forward on all-fours, paused at de Cowell’s feet to shimmy out of his jeans and then climbed into de Cowell’s lap. 

 

de Cowell had Isaac escort the very sleepy and sated Drake out when they were done, a packet of Euros stashed safely in the young man’s inner coat pocket. It was more than enough to get him through the remaining museums on his list and home again without missing a meal or a night’s sleep. Isaac, who’d helped de Cowell when it mattered most, who’d come to Europe to find his sister-in-law’s murderer, would also make certain that Drake had a list of phone numbers and addresses for safe houses between here and Louisiana in case the worst should happen. After that, it was up to Drake.

“You’re better you know,” Terrance said, closing the bedroom door quietly behind him. 

de Cowell was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His dick was still rock hard after three hours of sex with a very attractive and willing boy. The rest of his body was wound up in knots, needing relief and lost as to how to get it. His mind was a mess of confused messages, memories of pain and pleasure, desire and need, hate and fear. 

“Doesn’t matter,” de Cowell sighed and dug his nails into Egyptian cotton. 

“It’s been six months since I’ve had to take one of them out of here bruised and bloody. That’s progress.” Terrance wound his way through the room, stopping finally beside the bed. 

de Cowell surged upright. “And this is better?!” he shouted. He remembered those days; night after night when the only relief for his pain came from the act of hurting someone else. When sex meant doing to another body what had been done to him and then crying for hours over what kind of monster he had become. 

“Three fucking hours of fucking! And nothing. Nothing feels good. Nothing feels right. Nothing gives me peace.”

“You know what will.”

“No.” de Cowell shook his head, turning away, refusing to look at Terrance. 

Terrance waited. He always waited. 

de Cowell shivered. He didn’t want to be touched like that. Didn’t want that to be the only way to find release. But Terrance of all people understood. Terrance had been there, been through the same nightmare, lived through it to find de Cowell and rescue him. Terrance had walked this road and made it out the other side. 

de Cowell nodded and reached out one hand, his head still turned away, unable to look at Terrance yet. Still too trapped in the pain. He felt Terrance take his hand, squeeze his fingers once, then the bed dipped and he was wrapped in warm strong arms. The tears came then, like they always did, forced out around the anger and the shame and the aching pain in his throat. 

“I wish…” 

“Shhhh,” Terrance whispered. “Not now. Just let me take care of you. Okay?”

de Cowell nodded. 

“Okay. Lie back baby.” 

Terrance pushed gently on de Cowell’s shoulder and he let himself go with the motion, sinking back against the sheets. He watched Terrance pull the lube and condom over from where they were resting at the foot of the bed. 

“Gonna be cold,” Terrance warned as his slick finger pressed up against de Cowell’s ass-hole. 

de Cowell hissed, tensing up. 

“Breathe baby.” 

de Cowell nodded and forced himself to relax. He focused on taking deep, calming breaths and pushing away the memories of prepping himself morning after morning, hoping like a fool to hold off the pain of a dozen Johns or more per day. 

“That’s it,” Terrance said softly. “Just a little more, then it’s going to feel so good.” 

de Cowell closed his eyes and immediately regretted it. His whole body tensed, flooding with fear and the memory of pain. 

“Open your eyes, baby. Look at me”

de Cowell snapped his eyes open and hunted for Terrance, shuddering with relief when he saw his warm brown eyes hovering over him. 

“That’s it. It’s just me,” Terrance said, his fingers still pressing into de Cowell’s hole, firm and steady. “You’re safe, we both are.” 

de Cowell nodded. “Please…” 

“Okay.”

Terrance pulled his fingers out and reached for a condom. 

de Cowell took several deep breaths, watching Terrance’s face, the way the light caught on the dark stubble on his chin, making his brown skin glow in the late afternoon sun, at the way the muscles moved in his arms as he slicked up his sheathed cock, as he turned that amazing smile that never dulled, no matter what, back to de Cowell. 

“Ready?” Terrance asked. 

“No. Do it anyway.”

Terrance nodded and pushed his cock up against de Cowell’s hole and then slowly inside. de Cowell shivered, memories pressing at his skin. 

“Look at me,” Terrance said. “This is me, not them. Feel me. Put your hands on my arms.”

de Cowell shook his head and then nodded, fears colliding with reality for a moment, tossing him from one thought to another. He took a breath and slid his hands up along Terrance’s hands to his biceps and squeezed. He remembered this as well. Remembered other times when Terrance had held him just like this, had fucked him through the terror and helped him find his way out. There were good memories here as well as the bad. 

Terrance smiled. “That’s the smile I love. Right there.” 

de Cowell grinned and then groaned a sound of pure need as Terrance started to move, thrusting deep inside and pulling out. Long slow pulls and quick hard fucks. 

“Oh god!”

“Mmmhmmm. Oh yeah…” 

Terrance shifted and pushed back in at a new angle, glancing off de Cowell’s prostate, making him cry out in agony. 

“Shit, sorry!” 

“It’s okay,” de Cowell said, clinging to Terrance’s arms and riding out the memories that came with the pain. 

Terrance shifted quickly and the pressure moved with him, off of the tissue that had been abused and into a rhythm of pure bliss. 

“Stroke yourself, baby. Come on, treat yourself to some self love.”

de Cowell pulled one hand away from its death grip around Terrance’s arm and grasped his cock. With Terrance’s sure strokes it took only a few pulls of his own to finally break the impasse. He came howling nonsense words, pain and pleasure mixing as his overloaded nerve endings short-circuited. His body spasmed, curling around Terrance and then dropping back onto the bed like a broken puppet, spent and exhausted. 

Terrance pulled out and jacked off quickly somewhere, de Cowell couldn’t tell where exactly, probably over a towel at the edge of the bed. Neither of them could stand being jacked off on, it was too much like being owned again. 

de Cowell must have dozed off because the next thing he knew, Terrance was tucking the covers around him and kissing his cheek. He felt clean and empty. Not relaxed exactly, but free for the moment. It was enough.

~*~

The small plane shook as it banked and de Cowell opened his eyes, clutching the armrests until his knuckles ached.

“Just a bit of turbulence,” Lee said softly, one callused hand settling slowly over de Cowell’s. Lee knew him well. He made no sudden moves when de Cowell was like this, never raised his voice, never touched him without first showing de Cowell his hands and where they were going. “The pilot is turning us out of the worst of it. Should be just another minute or two.” 

de Cowell tilted his head to glance out the window. Thick banks of clouds obscured the view completely. He sighed and turned back to Lee with a nod. Lee squeezed his hand gently and let go, settling back on his heels, not standing up, but not nearly so close now. 

“Try to go back to sleep if you can, my Lord. I’ll have Sophie wake you when lunch is served.” 

de Cowell nodded and closed his eyes. 

 

January - February 2013  
de Cowell Manor  
Cambo, Northumberland, England

 

“Walk with me, son,” the elder Count de Cowell said, pausing beside Mitchel in the garden. 

Mitchel set his book aside, brushed the dust off his chinos, and slid into step beside his benefactor and Count. 

They walked for a while in easy silence. The day was warm, rare enough still for this early in spring, this high up in the hills. They were called mountains, but nothing in England was truly tall enough to be a mountain, not like mainland Europe or some places in the States. 

The Count’s cane tapped out a slow rhythm on the cobblestones, in counterpoint to the soft pat made by the soles of their shoes. A few birds called out, starlings gossiping, a jay bragging and a raven, bossy and arrogant in the pine tree up ahead. The raven had taken to following Mitchel around the grounds (at least Mitchel assumed it was the same one, there were several on the estate. This one stood out, though, with his bent right wing and gravelly tone to his call. 

Mitchel glared at the bird and whispered “no” as always at the bastard. No he would not follow that stupid creature. No he would not change his copper-red hair to raven-black. Just no. 

“You’re quiet today,” the Count said, guiding them toward the old oak bench beside the fountain that his wife had so loved when she was alive. Water flowed from four dolphin-shaped spouts down into the open petals of four marble roses and from there into a large wading pool lined with deep blue tiles. The Count had once told Mitchel that he’d had the tile made in that specific color to match the Countess’ eyes. Mitchel had never seen Marguerite de Cowell in person, she had died more than ten years earlier, but her eyes in all the paintings in the Manor matched the tiles. 

Mitchel shrugged. He tugged at the waist of his sweater vest and tried to find a comfortable spot on the sun-warmed stone. 

“I have missed the sound of you practicing. Mademoiselle Harlson says you dismissed her two weeks ago. Why is that?”

Mitchel looked at the Count and then quickly away. “I just…” his words caught in his throat, the sound coming out rough and strangled as it always did these days. He coughed and tried to relax his larynx the way the doctors and speech therapists had told him to. When he spoke at last, the words were clear even if the tone was one he would never get used to- deeper, harsh and broken. He pushed the accusations down into the dark and looked at the Count. 

“There was no point in continuing to waste her time. She’s done what she can. There are others who need her help more than I do.”

Mitchel could see the Count watching him and he waited for the inevitable argument, the one he had had with everyone for the last several months. How he just needed to give himself time to heal, to let the tissues of his throat recover, learn to relax and breathe through his stress. How no one could be expected to speak much or well or as they used to after what he had been through. 

He’d been broken, didn’t they understand that? He had been made to scream until he had no power to call for help, no ablitity to say no. Over and over again for three years. No one came back from that whole or sane. No one. 

Mitchel watched the Count’s face and saw the moment the old man changed his mind, dropped whatever he had been about to say and chose a different topic. 

“I need to discuss some things with you my son,” the Count began. “You know my health is not good.” 

Mitchel nodded. While the Count’s publicity team was well trained there was a limit to what even they could do when the man British GQ had named one of England’s most handsome men began to fade. Their praise had come two years ago when de Cowell had just turned 65 but looked closer to 45 with his lean figure and short brown curls. Simon de Cowell had been the talk of British gentry for years. Looking at the Count now, Mitchel saw what the press saw, de Cowell was dying. 

“How long?”

The Count closed his eyes and sighed. “Not long. A month, two perhaps.”

Mitchel clenched his hands into fists, fighting back a wave of heartache, and nodded. 

“The solicitors have completed the paperwork. You will be inducted as my legal heir a week from Saturday.” 

“Simon! No…”

“Yes.” The Count turned the full force of his personality on Mitchel, the same energy and passion he had used to convince Mitchel that life after slavery was something worth living. “I have no living children. It was the only thing Marguerite and I couldn’t give each other. But you--” The Count took Mitchel’s hand and slowly worked the fingers open, spreading the palm out against his thigh. “She would have adored you.”

Mitchel felt the tears start at that. “I wish I could have met her.” 

“I know.” The Count brushed a finger across Mitchel’s hand. “You must promise me something though.”

“Anything.”

“Live.”

Mitchel stared at the Count. 

“Live your life. Live it to the fullest. Live it joyfully. Take this opportunity to right the wrong that was done to you and live the life you were meant to live.”

Mitchel nearly pulled away from the Count. The words shocked him to his core, but then he made himself listen to them, playing them over again, and then he nodded. “I will.” 

“Thank you,” the Count said. “Thank you.”

 

Forty-one days later Mitchel de Cowell became the seventh Count de Cowell. 

As the signet ring of the de Cowells was placed on the pinky of his right hand Mitchel looked across at the faces of the friends who had helped free him and bring him to the safety of the de Cowell estate. There were a dozen of them in this room alone who had made everything possible. His gaze found Lee’s; Lee who had come over from the States to help him reconnect with the world and stayed to help him build a new life. Lee nodded and Mitchel took a deep breath. 

“Simon de Cowell once explained to me that the Phoenix is the sigil of the de Cowells because no matter what happens in life, we always rise again. We may be burned by the fire, but we are also the fire that burns away impurities so that life may thrive. 

“I promised Simon, and now I promise each of you, that from this day forward, I will live my life as it was meant to be lived, righting the wrongs that were done to me, and to each of you. You broke the slavers’ ring that held me, now it’s time to find the ones who sold me, and your loved ones, to them.”

Mitchel de Cowell, the new Count de Cowell, watched his people nod, their faces determined and sure. They would finish what the old Count had started and they would finish it for good.

~*~

Sophie and Isaac cleared away the last of the dishes from lunch and retreated to the forward cabin, leaving de Cowell and Lee in the quiet of the jet’s main area.

“You should try to sleep some more,” Lee said, pushing out of his seat. 

de Cowell laughed as he adjusted the sleeves of his white dress-shirt and smoothed down his forest green silk tie. “We really need to get you married off and started on those kids. You are way too fond of playing mother hen!”

“Just trying to make my life easier on the ground,” Lee replied with a nod and a slight smile. “LA is going to be a madhouse.” 

“True.” de Cowell brushed a crumb off his gray wool slacks. “What’s the final head count for the ball?”

Lee snorted but resumed his seat as he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out his electronic tablet. With a flick of his thumb he was scrolling through information, the white light from the screen dancing across the paleness of his cheeks and into the dark shadows of his neatly trimmed beard. 

“Two hundred and seventy-five. The caterer is amazed we don’t have more last minute add-ons.” 

“At our ticket price?” de Cowell asked, amused. 

“With your name,” Lee insisted. 

de Cowell waved that thought away and pointed at Lee’s tablet. “What else does your device have to tell us?”

Lee smiled. “Daniel Gokey and Kara DioGuardi Gokey send their regards and their thanks once again for hosting the ball.” 

de Cowell snorted. Of course they did. He was paying for the whole thing: they just had to show up and look pretty. 

“They placed an order for a floral arrangement and fruit basket to be sent to the LA apartments.” 

“I trust you amended that?”

Lee nodded.

“Thank god. I don’t think I could take another fruit basket from those two.”

“I thought the tropical one was kind of cute.”

“That’s why you got to keep the plastic monkeys.”

Lee chuckled and turned back to his notes. “Nigel Lithgow’s assistant sent word this morning. He and his wife will be arriving late. They have a prior engagement that he cannot get out of, but they are honored to attend.” 

de Cowell nodded, unsurprised. 

“Paula Abdul, Randy Jackson and Ryan Seacreast have all RSVPed. They and their guests will be attending and, we presume, on time. The Lambert family will also be in attendance. Neil Lambert will be bringing his wife, Melinda, and Eber Lambert will be bringing a date. He did not inform us of her name, though we have determined that it will be his former girlfriend, Elizabeth Carmichael.”

“And M-- Mrs- Leila Lambert?” de Cowell asked, twisting the signet ring on his right hand.

Lee looked up and over at de Cowell, his eyes dark, then back at his notes. “She has also confirmed that she will attend. Though that took some work and finally a call from Nigel himself to convince her that it would be good for her to get out of the house for once.”

“I see,” de Cowell said. He looked down at the ring on his right hand, watching the shape of the phoenix shift and shimmer as he twisted it in the muted light of the jet. “And--” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to cough to clear it. “And Ratliff?”

Lee looked up from his notes. “All of the invitations were returned unopened.”

de Cowell turned, attuned to every nuance of Lee’s voice. There was a message unspoken there. “But you found him?”

“We did.”

“Tell me.” The words and the voice brooked no refusal. 

“Tommy Joe Ratliff is living in a penthouse in West Hollywood owned by Daniel Gokey.”

de Cowell felt the shock of those words go through him. “A penthouse.” 

Lee nodded. 

“Owned by Gokey.”

Lee nodded again. 

“Well that answers that question then.” de Cowell’s heart, secure behind miles of steel and willpower, twitched and then went silent. He took a deep breath and turned back to the window. 

After a moment he heard Lee stand and walk toward the front cabin, presumably to discuss plans with Isaac and Sophie. There would be more work than even the three of them could handle once they arrived in LA, which was why Terrance had gone on ahead to recruit staff whom they could all feel safe with. 

de Cowell closed his eyes and sighed. He was doing the right thing, he knew he was, but he was so damn tired of it all. He rested his head against the wall of the plane and willed the hum of the engine to lull him back to sleep. 

 

September 2009  
Somewhere in Spain

His body was not his own any longer. He understood that now. They had forced him to understand. Blow after blow, fuck after fuck, john after john, the message was driven home. He was no one. Just a thing to be used. Owned by his masters. No name. No home. No face. Everything he had been was erased, stolen along with his dreams on the best night of his life. 

He lay back on his mat, cocaine and Viagra pulsing through his veins, and let himself be used. He blanked his mind and opened his mouth, accepting the spunk and the blows with equal lassitude. 

His skin ripped and tore and he felt nothing, not even the pain that was always there. He screamed because they wanted him to, begged and cried until his voice broke, and felt nothing. His ribs cracked and healed, his muscles seized and relaxed and he felt nothing. 

He was nothing. 

It was the only way to be sure they owned nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two   
Lee Cherry, Private Secretary to the Count de Cowell  
Thursday April 17, 2014

 

Lee looked out the window and let himself zone out for a moment. Los Angeles was speeding past at 70 miles per hour as they drove north on highway one. His assistant, Lane Newland, had already gone over the latest updates on the guests, catering, costumes, arguments with the venue and the like for the Gala. It was enough to give him a splitting headache. Add to that the report from Xander, Terrance’s second in command, on the newest members of their staff who had been hired to handle the overflow generated not only by the Gala but by everything the Gala was designed to cover, and Lee was starting to wish he’d never heard of the Count de Cowell and his brilliant plans to rid the earth of evil. 

Lee sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. It was only ten in the morning. He still had his biggest and most important meeting ahead of him, literally. They were en route to Malibu and the estate of Simon Fuller, former CEO of 19 Entertainment. Having sold his company, no one was sure exactly what Fuller was, other than very rich, powerful and still considered a king maker. One Lee needed to sweet talk into giving de Cowell something he desperately wanted. The trick would be keeping Fuller from knowing what de Cowell really wanted and why. 

Meanwhile the Count was in meetings all day with nearly half of the leading music industry executives in Los Angeles. Lee and Sophie had spent breakfast going over the schedule with de Cowell and double-checking notes on discussion topics. Everyone wanted something from the Count, which was good for de Cowell since he had a few things he wanted to set in motion, and having people owing him favors would make everything that much easier. The meetings would go off just fine, of that Lee was certain. This part of his role de Cowell had down pat. It was afterward Lee was worried about. There was no telling what he would be like after a day so laced with music, but at least de Cowell had Sophie and Terrance with him for support. Everything else, they would just have to deal with as it came. 

Lee shook his head to clear his thoughts. One problem at a time. At the moment Lane and Xander were discussing, in increasingly loud voices, something about accounting, which meant Lee needed to step back in or there would be blood on the very nice black leather seats all too soon.

“Okay,” Lee said, “What else do you have for me?” 

He shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable both in his three-piece charcoal gray suit and the chauffer-driven SUV. You’d think after three years of working for a Count he would be used to this kind of thing, but he wasn’t. Lee was a photographer not a fucking businessman. At least not the kind he’d become. And all of this fronting for the Count was getting to him. Or maybe it was just the Lambert case. 

Sitting at Lee’s right on the bench seat, Lane’s graceful fingers rapped lightly on the screen of her tablet to open a file. Her blonde hair was pulled off her face in an elegant chignon with one loose strand that danced along her cheek as if emphasizing her movements. Her gray skirt suit was a shade or two lighter than Lee’s, the jacket open showing off the vibrant green of her silk blouse. 

“Reports are in on all the Idol contestants, staff, and crew from season eight.”

When Lane paused, looking at him with a raised eyebrow, Lee nodded for her to continue. 

“As you expected, Lithgow came back squeaky clean. We’ve turned over every rock he’s ever looked at, sat on, tripped over or slept next to. Twice. And found nothing. He is exactly what he looks like – a dancer turned producer with a big heart and strong opinions. But he had absolutely nothing to do with Lambert’s disappearance. In fact he’s done the most to help Lambert’s family cope with the situation, his mother in particular. Calls her regularly and sends his cook over with a week’s worth of meals about once a month just to make sure she’s eating properly. I think he’s genuinely devastated by what happened.”

Lee nodded and fought back a wave of grief. He hadn’t seen Leila Lambert in two years. Hadn’t told her where he was going or why he was leaving Los Angeles. As far as he knew, she thought he was another missing person. _Shit_. 

“Abdul,” Lane continued, “crazy though she seems to everyone on earth, is actually one savvy business woman. Her accounts are pristine, and she turned everything over without a fuss. Had her lawyer checking our request for info a week before we set foot on site, but still, once they cleared us, she gave us full access. Abdul’s ruthless, but she’s not hiding any of it. I wouldn’t want to cross her, but nothing points, at this moment, to her being involved.” 

“And Randy Jackson?” Lee asked. 

Lane shook her head. “Jackson isn’t as clean as the other two but he’s still clear of this.”

“How so?”

Lane looked over to Xander in the seat in front of them and nodded. Xander nodded back and took up the report. He shifted in his seat, turning more toward Lee, making a mess, more of a mess, of his dark gray suit in the process. His de Cowell green tie at least was done up correctly for a change. 

Xander was a good looking guy but hopeless with clothes no matter what anyone on staff did or said to help him. He kind of reminded Lee of PigPen from the Peanuts. Not that he was always dirty, just that he was perpetually disheveled. The man could make a thousand dollar suit look like it came from Wal-Mart without even trying. And how sad was it that Lee could spot the difference? 

“There’s some petty crime in his past,” Xander said, pulling Lee’s attention back to the matter at hand, “drug arrests, a few gun deals, the usual gang relations prior to wising up and finding a better way to make a name and money. For the most part, it’s all in the past.”

Lee raised an eyebrow. Xander caught the look and nodded. 

“Yeah. Mostly. He keeps his hand in just far enough to use his connections on the street to seed new music and look for up-and-coming talent. Of course there’s also the occasional call to hire out for an intimidation job, small-scale stuff so far. No kidnapping and no sex trade.”

“Okay. Keep an eye on him, but we’ll assume he’s low on the list unless something pings on the radar.”

“Right,” Xander replied. “We have track and trace set up on him, just like the others so we’ll know if anything flags the matrixes.” 

“And the rest of the Idol crew?” 

Lane sighed. “The financials on Gokey and DioGuardi are a mess.”

“Now there’s a surprise.” Xander snorted. 

“Yeah. Accounting is going to be at it for ages, but what they could tell me after their initial review is that Gokey is definitely living above his means and he’s got his wife on a tight leash. All her personal accounts were closed a year after their marriage, and now everything is in his name.” 

“Huh.” Lee wasn’t sure what he thought about that, but it was certainly odd. 

Lane nodded and went on. “Both the LA house and the place in Nashville are in Gokey’s name.” 

“What about the penthouse that Ratliff is living in?” Lee asked. 

“That’s where things get interesting,” Lane replied. “Gokey owned the apartment in his name up until his marriage to DioGuardi. After that, the place was technically sold, but we’ve been able to trace the exchange to a holding company owned by Gokey.”

“So Gokey still owns the place.” Lee said. 

Lane nodded. “Looks like it.”

“And DioGuardi doesn’t know anything about it?” Xander asked. 

“No sign yet, but we can’t be certain until your guys have the taps and video set up and the feed starts rolling on their place.”

“Right.” Xander nodded, his face thoughtful. 

“Okay,” Lee said, letting the ramifications of this latest data point rumble in the back of his thoughts. “What about Ratliff? What have we got on him?”

Xander tapped his tablet a few times and looked up. “Techs are going in tonight to set cameras and bugs so we should start having clean live feed sometime tomorrow morning.”

“Nice work.”

Xander shrugged. “Building manager owes us a favor in a roundabout way.”

“Ah,” Lee said, understanding. While most of their recovery work was done in the European Union, sex rings touched lives all around the world. People in the U.S. only thought they were immune until they discovered the hard way that they really weren’t. “Records on Ratliff?”

“They go cold in May of 2011,” Lane said. “Up till then it’s the usual musician hoofing it for work, paying bills as best he can and usually getting his rent in on time.”

“What happens in 2011?”

“No idea. He just vanished. Nothing in DMV, no bank transactions, his cell was disconnected, everything. Weird thing is, his parents – well mother, his father died right around the time he disappeared – said nothing to anyone about Ratliff going off the grid.”

“No missing persons report?”

“No. Nothing to friends or the rest of the family. It’s like he stopped existing.”

“When does he turn back up?” Lee asked. 

“He doesn’t, not really. We found him because you told us what to look for and gave us leads on his past hangouts. When those trails went cold, I asked Security to back track into all his known and not so well known associates.”

“Turns out,” Xander said, not missing a beat, “that Ratliff started hanging out with Daniel Gokey back in June of 2009.”

Lee blinked, startled. “That’s weird. I’d think those two would be like oil and water.”

“That’s what Ratliff’s friends said as well. No one could figure out what was going on. And Ratliff refused to say at the time. Just brushed everyone off and kept going over to Gokey’s place for days on end.”

“Any idea what they were doing?”

“Not yet,” Xander said. “Ratliff’s financial situation starts to improve around the same time. Same job and handful of gigs, but suddenly his bank account has more deposits in it. All in cash. A thousand here, three grand there.”

“From who?”

“No idea,” Lane replied. 

“Accounting’s doing a drill down on Ratliff, I presume?”

Lane nodded. “Full spectrum. Looking for every trace they can find.”

“Good. Anything else on Ratliff?”

“Not at the moment,” Xander said. 

“Okay. I want to know the moment anything pings on him.”

“Sure thing.” Xander nodded then paused. “Lee, about Ratliff?” 

“Yes?”

“What’s so special about him?”

Lee shook his head. “The Count has his reasons. Until he’s ready to explain, you know I can’t say anything.”

“Okay. I mean, I know that, we all do… it’s just… This case. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“This one is special,” Lee said.

“Did he…” Xander started then stopped, his hands tracing the edges of his tablet. Lee waited for him to figure out how to ask his question. “Did he know Lambert or the boss?”

“You could say that.” Lee watched Xander. He stared at him, searching his face for answers, then looked to Lane whose face had gone carefully blank. When Xander looked back at Lee there was something like acceptance in his eyes. Xander was good people. He’d only been with them a year, but he’d proven his loyalty time and time again. He’d wait for his answers and he’d protect the team even knowing he didn’t have all the data. That was the kind of trust de Cowell instilled in his people. 

“Okay,” Xander said at last. 

Lee nodded toward the tablet in Lane’s lap. “What about the rest of the Idol kids?”

Lane looked down at her notes. “A couple of misdemeanor charges for unrelated issues, a whole lotta speeding tickets.”

“Ah, LA,” Xander said.

Lane nodded with a smile. “One case of child abandonment, we’ve turned that one over to LA county CPS already for further investigation.”

“Good.”

“A few other minor issues with taxes and maxed out credit cards, but for the most part they came back clean.”

“For the most part?”

Xander nodded taking over the conversation. He tapped a file on his tablet and handed it over to Lee. “Two contestants pinged the search matrix. Anoop Desai and Lil Rounds. Both were eliminated in round seven. Desai’s been in and out of the country on business for the last three years.”

“So what? He’s our dealer?”

“Could be,” Lane said. Security has a team doing a backtrack on his trail now, and I have the forensic accountants crawling through every inch of his financial life. If it is him, they’ll find us the proof.”

“And Lil Rounds?”

Xander shrugged. “That one is less clear cut. She’s been here in LA the whole time but her associates haven’t been the nicest of people. Her accounts are a mess, but the initial review suggests she’s paying out to someone for something big and has been since May of 2009. She’s had her car repossessed and her house foreclosed on, yet she keeps making these other payments.”

“Where’s the money coming from?”

“No idea. That’s what Accounting is looking for next.”

“Bugs and video in both their houses?”

Xander nodded. “Up and running on Rounds as of last night. We have feed going on both of her ex-boyfriends as well as at her mother’s house and the apartment her stepfather thinks no one knows about. The same for Desai, his current girlfriend and his parents, plus his apartment in San Francisco.”

“Okay, you’ll send me the reports when they’re in?”

“Of course.”

“What about Allen? Did we get any more information on him?”

Xander accepted his tablet back from Lee with a nod. “The techs have finished their report on the Allen case. You and Lane both have copies in your inboxes.” 

“Good. Anything I need to know?”

“Nothing we didn’t expect.” Xander glanced at his notes and then back up. “Terrance was right. Allen was definitely coerced into throwing the final performance, but by who and through what means?” Xander shook his head. 

“Leave that to Sophie,” Lane said with a hard smile. “Trust me, she can crack him.” 

Xander bowed his head. “I would never doubt her, you know that.” 

“Wise.”

“Oh,” Xander looked over at Lee. “Your pet judge unsealed the Allen-O’Connell divorce papers for you. Those will be here tomorrow.” 

Lee rolled his eyes. “She’s not my pet anything.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, old man. I saw the way Scarlett’s eyes sparkled when I mentioned your name.”

The driver buzzed through, interrupting their meeting. “Five minutes out from the Fuller estate, sir.” 

“Thank you, Derik,” Lee said before thumbing off the intercom. “Anything else?”

Lane and Xander shook their heads. 

“All right then. Time to beard a lion in his den. Xander, you’ll stay with the car.” Lee held up a hand. “No arguments. Terrance already explained the security set up at Fuller’s place to me. There’s nothing you can do inside that’ll keep me any safer than that knowledge will. Stay outside. Talk to whoever you can. Scout around or whatever. Find out as much as you can by being your usual charming self.”

Xander sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. “I don’t like it, but okay.”

“Lane, you’re with me. You know the drill: let me do most of the talking and follow along no matter what I say. Keep your ears open so we can compare notes later. Oh, and be distracting if you need to, but mostly leave Fuller to me.”

“One more button undone, gottcha,” she said with a wink and a flick of the top button on her blouse.

Lee sighed. Photographing models had been much easier.

~*~

“Mr. Fuller,” Lee said, hand outstretched, “thank you so much for taking the time to see me.”

“A pleasure, Lee. Anything for Mitchel.” Fuller waved them toward chairs on the patio. Lee bit back a scathing remark. Fuller, a British citizen himself and a recent guest of Prince Charles, knew better than to address a Peer of the Realm, one he’d never even been introduced to, by his first name. 

Lee flicked open the buttons on his suit jacket, swept the sides back and out of the way, and sat down. He took strength from the flash of green at his neck, the de Cowell colors in his tie, and looked up at Fuller.

“My Lord, the Count, sends his regards and regrets that he cannot meet with you in person, but he is backed up with meetings now that he is on American soil.”

“Of course.” Fuller nodded with a twist at the corner of his mouth then turned to Lane. “And who is this beautiful creature?”

“My assistant,” Lee said. “Lane Newland.”

“You’re a lucky man, Lee.”

Lane smiled and leaned just a little forward. “Actually, I consider myself lucky. There aren’t many Americans lucky enough to work with someone of Mr. Cherry’s caliber. And to be able to assist with matters of Peerage and all things relating to the Count’s estate and personal business, is a training ground I couldn’t find anywhere else. I figure that will make me invaluable in time.”

Fuller laughed. “Beauty and brains, a deadly mix: I’ll remember that. And be sure to ask Lee for your resume and contact information should you ever feel the need to settle into something…” Fuller paused and tilted his head, “different.”

Lane smiled and sat back in her chair. 

“A lucky, lucky man, Lee.” Fuller nodded to a servant and drinks materialized around the table, some berry colored iced drink in tall glasses. “And what of the security team we’ve heard so much about in the press? I expected to see you flanked by guards.”

Lee smiled. “Security is standard for someone in Lord de Cowell’s position. As a Peer of the Realm and as an outspoken public figure he is often the target of the… less pleasant elements of our world. As members of his staff on the other hand, Ms. Newland and I don’t need as much care and feeding, as it were.” Lee dipped his head hoping to look self-deprecating and mostly just trying to keep a damn straight face. All this wanna-be high court flouncing was such bullshit. 

“Of course, of course.” Fuller sat back in his chair and took a sip of his drink. Lee watched him and waited. Finally Fuller took the bait. “So, what brings the Count de Cowell’s assistant to my door so early in his visit to Los Angeles?”

“As Lane mentioned, Mitchel de Cowell is not only the Count de Cowell, he is also the CEO of a company that specializes in helping people get back on their feet after disaster strikes.” 

“Yes, the European press loves to talk about his latest rescue project. What is it this week? Orphaned one-legged boys from Malaysia?”

Lee saw Lane tap her manicured nails against the arm of her chair, the only sign that Fuller had struck a nerve. Lee could only hope he hid his reaction so well. 

“Nothing that specific,” Lee said as mildly as he could. 

“But he’s sent you looking for donations?”

“Actually he’s sent us with an offer of assistance.”

Fuller shifted in his seat, surprise clear on his face. “Assistance? I don’t understand.”

Lee pulled a file out of his briefcase and passed it across the table to Fuller. “Our contacts tell us that this information will hit Billboard Weekly on Monday.”

Fuller flipped the file open and scanned the papers within, his face paling under his California tan. 

“Where did you… How-?”

“Five years ago,” Lee spoke over Fuller, “CKX, Inc. reneged on its deal with you over the sale of 19 Entertainment. Two weeks ago a Judge Garrett in Los Angeles County overturned your appeal and awarded CKX all future profits of 19 Entertainment as well as giving them all rights to both the Presley Estate and Muhammad Ali’s business interests, two items you had specifically requested in your buyout deal with them. 

“Additionally,” Lee went on as Fuller sputtered and turned gray, “Judge Garrett has ruled that all documents relating to the case, specifically those presented by CKX relating to the reasons for cutting you out of the deal, be made public.” Lee paused, watching Fuller take in the reality that he had been avoiding for years. “And when that happens, Mr. Fuller, everyone will know why and how you lost control over your empire.” 

“How did you get these files? They’re supposed to be sealed!” 

“It’s what we do, Mr. Fuller. But more important than that, it’s part of how we can help you.” Lee nodded to the file. “If you’ll look at the last page.”

Fuller looked down again and flipped to the end, his mouth working through the words as he read and reread what he saw. Lee spoke into the echoing silence. 

“An internal memo from Robert Sillerman, former Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of CKX, requesting all files pertaining to Simon Fuller’s relations with underaged boys, real or otherwise.” 

Fuller sucked in a gulp of air. 

“The smoking gun you need; one that shows how, with that letter, Sillerman intended to not only hurt you financially but was trying to smear you personally and politically. Accept our offer Mr. Fuller, and you will have the means to take your company back and rebuild your reputation.”

“Why? Why give me this?”

Lee shrugged. “You’ve done a great deal for the music industry, and it would be a shame to see that all go to waste on a vendetta.”

Fuller stared at Lee, his eyes and mouth tight in thought. “No. There’s more. You. your Count, want something. What is it?”

“Nothing much. Nothing that will hurt you.”

“What?”

“Just some information. A file actually. One in your keeping. Well, probably in storage somewhere, but in your filing system.”

Fuller pulled back, surprised and then a little amused. “A file? That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“You can get this--” Fuller waved to the letter on the table between them, “but you need my help to get a file?”

Lee shrugged. “Some files are easier to get than others.”

Fuller stared at Lee, his eyes flicking between Lee and Lane and back again. Lee sat still, staring back, willing his mind to stay calm. “Okay, what’s the file?”

Lee pulled a sheet of paper out of his bag and slid it across the table toward Fuller. Fuller stopped it with his palm, and then laughed when he read it. “Lambert? Your Count is a on a wild goose chase. You think I haven’t tried finding the kid? His disappearance fucking destroyed our ratings that year.”

“Actually,” Lane said, “his disappearance did wonders for your ratings, if not in the way you’d planned.” Lee was impressed all over again. Her words were brutal but her tone was elegant and conciliatory, offering Fuller a way out. 

“The de Cowells are old friends of the Lamberts,” Lee lied smoothly. “The Count has agreed to put a little of his time, while we’re in LA, into looking into the case for old time sake. Since you have access to all of the Idol files, we hoped that there might be some stray piece of information that could be useful. Seems a fair trade. Don’t you think? Our piece of information for yours?”

Fuller sat back and studied Lee again. 

“Okay. Yes. I can do that. I can make some phone calls. Have my people go back through the records and pull together what they find, pass it on to you.”

Lee put a hand on the file between them, Fuller’s smoking gun. “We would appreciate that, very much. We’ll get you a copy of this letter as soon as we have your information.”

Fuller looked at the file, his hands clenching, then stood up. “Of course. I’ll get that to you right away.”

“Thank you.”

Lee held Lane’s chair as she stood, handed her the Fuller file, and then followed her toward the door. Taking a breath he turned back as casually as he could. 

“Oh, one last thing. Actually, it’s something I’ve been trying to sort out on my own without much success. I was hoping maybe you could?”

Fuller nodded, distracted, his eyes on the file in Lane’s hands, or given the way his eyes kept flickering up and down, perhaps to the opening of her blouse.

“There’s a guy, a musician I photographed a while back. He did some work on several of the Idol Session albums. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him to invite him to the Gala. Perks of the job – the Count gave us each a guest pass. Thing is, I haven’t been able to find him.” 

Lee pulled the invitation out of his breast pocket. 

“What’s his name?”

“Ratliff, Tommy Joe Ratliff.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but then, I wasn’t involved with the day to day recordings much. You said he worked on the Idol Sessions?”

“Yeah, I think he did a few of Gokey’s and um, I think he said he worked on Iraheta’s too.” 

“Ah. Well then, that should be enough for my assistant to find him.”

“That would be fantastic. Thank you.” Lee said, handing the invitation to Fuller then steering Lane out of the room as fast as reasonably possible. He felt disgusting and disgusted. Fuller was the epitome of everything they worked against and he’d just made a deal with the devil hoping to catch the biggest devil of all. If anything they got from Fuller led them to Lambert’s kidnappers then everything he’d just done would have been well worth the effort, especially if he got to help destroy that person inch by very slow inch. 

 

May 2012  
de Cowell Manor   
Cambo, Northumberland, England

 

“Before you enter,” the Count de Cowell said, one manicured hand on Lee’s arm. 

Lee was exhausted. The flight from Los Angeles had been delayed in New York due to weather and he’d spent four hours trapped in LAX waiting to board the damn plane, only to spend an additional hour circling JFK while the rain cleared enough for them to land. By then he’d missed his flight to Heathrow and had had to crash at the airport overnight to catch the next flight out in the morning. He was tired, smelly, achy and above all nervous. He didn’t want to be here at de Cowell’s estate, well not under these circumstances. The place was nice enough. The antiques and artwork were incredible; he’d have to see if he could take some pictures before he left, maybe set up a full photo shoot for the another trip.

Lee wanted this whole interview over. He wanted to see his friend. He wanted to know why he had to call him by his damn middle name and where the fuck he’d been for the last three fucking years and why, if he had to hole up in some swanky count’s place as his boy toy, he couldn’t have at least waited until after Idol, or written his mother and Lee a damn note. 

Lee scrubbed his free hand across his face. He was way too tired for this shit. 

“You must understand something,” the Count said, releasing Lee’s arm and stepping away. 

“Okay.” Lee tried to rein in his irritation. 

“As far as the world is concerned, as far as the man in the next room is concerned, Adam Lambert died in Amsterdam three months ago.”

“What? No!” 

“Yes.” de Cowell was granite and ice. “You must agree to that or I cannot permit you to go any further.”

“But you said-“ 

“I said that your friend’s body was whole. His mind, his heart, his soul even, have been damaged to the core. There is a reason he changed his name to Mitchel de Cowell, and it was not simply because my people and I rescued him.”

“Rescued?” Lee’s stomach clenched and he was suddenly very glad he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. 

“Rescued. Mr. Cherry, everything you hear from this point on will not be easy, but you must know the truth, all of it, if you are to be of any help to him.”

Lee rocked back on his heels. This was nothing like what he had been expecting. Okay, to be fair he really hadn’t known what to expect when de Cowell’s people called him and invited him to England, but certainly not this. 

“Ah,” Lee cleared his throat. “Yeah. Okay.” He nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. “Tell me whatever I need to know.”

de Cowell studied Lee’s face for a moment, looking like he was searching for clues in Lee’s face or something, then he nodded. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “You’re a true friend to him.”

Lee looked away, uncomfortable. He felt like a terrible friend. He’d gone back to working on the Zodiac show and photographing up-and-coming-wanna-bes while Adam had been missing. What kind of friend does that? 

“Adam Lambert,” de Cowell said, his voice devoid of all emotion, “was sold into a sex slave ring at some point after he was abducted.” Lee gasped and de Cowell held up a hand to silence him. “He was held against his will, beaten, drugged, forced to perform sex acts and raped repeatedly for three years before my people stumbled upon him while breaking a trafficking ring we’d been following.”

“How… What?” Lee asked, his brain reeling, then finally settling on one terrifying fact. “Stumbled? So you didn’t know…that he was there?”

“No.”

“Then…”

“Yes. According to records found on site he was slated to be moved within the month. If we hadn’t broken the ring that night, he likely would never have been found.”

“Oh my god.” Lee stumbled away from de Cowell. “God. No.”

A strong hand pressed Lee down into a chair as a glass of water appeared in front of him. He clutched at the glass with shaking hands, his mind cycling through the horror of de Cowell’s words. 

“But he’s alive?”

“Mitchel de Cowell is.” de Cowell nodded. 

Lee took a sip of water and then looked back at de Cowell. “But?”

de Cowell looked away, uncomfortable for the first time, then back. “His voice is ruined.” 

Lee choked out a sound, part rage, part grief. 

“Yes,” de Cowell said softly. “His voice is gone. They… they were under orders to make certain that he screamed as often as possible in order to destroy his vocal cords. 

“That was done- on purpose?!”

de Cowell nodded. 

“Who does such a thing? To anyone?”

“Sick fuckers,” said a voice from behind Lee. Lee turned to see a man in a perfectly tailored tan suit standing behind him, the same one, Lee realized belatedly who must have given him the water and helped him sit as the shock hit. The man’s face was angled toward the window, sunlight warming his brown skin, but his eyes were closed and his hands clenched into fists at his side. 

“Terrance,” de Cowell said, his voice so very gentle and aching.

Terrance twitched, dipped his head and turned to de Cowell, “My apologies, my Lord.” 

“It’s all right, Terrance. May I?” 

The sunset’s rays caught and sparked off gold highlights in Terrance’s close cropped hair as he nodded. 

de Cowell looked back to Lee. “Terrance is part of my security team and a member of the Phoenix search crews. He led the mission that found Mitchel. He also has first hand experience with what Mitchel is going through.”

Lee looked from de Cowell to Terrance. Terrance was watching Lee. 

“The Count rescued me several years ago when I was fool enough to believe an ad seeking dancers for a touring show.”

“You weren’t a fool,” de Cowell said with a sigh. “They knew their market from all sides and used your hope and the hope of others like you to lure you to them. It’s not foolish to dream of dancing your way through the great theaters of Europe.”

Terrance rolled his eyes, but Lee could see there was the barest hint of a smile on his face now. Clearly the two men had had this discussion before. 

“And Ad- Mitchel? How did he end up in all of this?”

“We don’t know,” Terrance replied, walking around Lee’s chair to stand beside de Cowell. “Yet. But we will find out, and when we do, we’re gonna make sure that the people behind this are brought to justice.”

de Cowell put a hand on Terrance’s shoulder and squeezed. Terrance nodded. 

“The man you knew as Adam Lambert is gone,” de Cowell said, addressing Lee once again. “But Mr. Cherry, if you are the man he believes you to be, you can help the soul that is struggling inside Mitchel’s broken body, help him recover and be something new, something more than he was before.” 

Lee looked away from the Count and Terrance toward the door to his right. On the other side was the man he’d gotten on a plane at the drop of a hat to see. Could he set aside his dreams, his needs, and accept what had changed? Be what his friend needed him to be, no matter what?

Lee nodded, first to himself and then again to de Cowell and Terrance. “Tell me what to do.”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three  
Isaac Carpenter, Asst. Chief of Security for the Count de Cowell & Phoenix Fire Industries  
Wednesday April 23, 2014

 

“I’m fine, hun. I promise.” Isaac winced, the pain in his cheek flaring as he shifted the ice pack around. He rotated his shoulder, flexing the sore muscles under his now-bloodied white and blue striped shirt. His suit jacket was hanging over the back of a chair, the gray wool torn and stained in half a dozen places. His slacks might survive the trip, but the jacket was a wash. Another suit down the drain. Thank god his job came with a clothing budget. 

“Nothing the guys and I couldn’t handle. Honest.”

“Just hurry up and get home,” Sophie said down the line from LA, her voice rough from not crying.

“Not much longer. Desai’s due in any minute. We’ll sort things out with him and be on the road.”

“You better be.”

“Promise.”

“Okay.” Sophie sighed. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Isaac hit the off switch and dumped his phone on the table. His head was killing him.

“She’s never gonna let you out of her sight again when she sees that shiner,” Doug said, handing him a glass of water and a handful of pills. His own shirt wasn’t doing much better than Isaac’s, stained red with blood, most of it not Isaac’s or Doug’s thankfully. His leather gun holster was clearly visible in the dim light, wrapped securely around his chest. Doug’s navy slacks were torn at the knee and one pocket was hanging loose in the back. More clothes to replace. 

Isaac snorted. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Maybe you shoulda let us…”

“No.” Isaac cut Doug off. “You know it had to be me. Mother’s lieutenant would never have agreed to meet with either you or Warren on your own.”

“Yeah but that guy, hell that whole organization is pure trash.”

“Just means we need to be smarter next time.” Isaac shrugged and downed his pills with a deep gulp of water. “Mother and her boys haven’t held San Francisco this long without making enemies and cracking heads.”

“Almost cracked yours tonight.”

“But they didn’t.” Isaac slammed the glass down on the table. He could still see the butt of the magnum coming toward him. Fucking thing hurt like a son of a bitch. If it hadn’t been for Doug and Warren… Isaac pushed that thought away. 

Doug gripped Isaac’s shoulder, the pressure of his hands saying everything he never said in words. “Too damn close, though.”

“Was worth it.” 

“Hope so.”

Isaac nodded. 

Doug squeezed Isaac’s shoulder once more and slipped into the shadows of Anoop Desai’s apartment. They were waiting for the former Idol contestant to return from a dinner meeting so they could question him about the information Mother’s people had given them. Information that made Isaac sick to his stomach. 

Isaac heard Doug check in with Warren by the front door of the apartment, a low murmur of sound that he knew from experience would include details of time and weather, GPS data on Desai’s car, any text or email updates the bugs had forwarded and any sightings Warren had from the hall camera. They’d let him know when Desai was nearly home. When it was time to get to work. Until then…

Isaac turned away from the shadows and looked out at the rain. It had hardly ever rained in April when he’d been growing up in the Tri-Cities, didn’t rain much most of the time, but in April barely at all. LA was like that too. No rain for most of the year then thunder floods in the winter, but here in San Francisco, they had these constant showers right through till May. It seemed so odd to him. Like something out of book. A bit like the land around the Count’s estate, and yet different in its own way as well. England was so flat compared to San Francisco and so much older than any city in California. 

On the sidewalk below, rain smeared the lights from the crosswalk and the street lamps and turned the road to an Impressionist’s painting, with foghorns mourning in the distance. Some days Isaac felt like a pebble tossed into one of those paintings, rolling around trying to find his bearings. Looking for meaning in colors and textures. 

He scrubbed a hand across his face. _Shit he was tired._

Maybe it was time to get out of this business. Take the boss up on his retirement package, buy him and Sophie a little place somewhere and start over where there were no memories of ruined lives and broken bodies. 

Isaac rolled his head and looked over at his friends. Even in the shadows Doug and Warren looked tired too. It was in the sag of their shoulders and the slow movement of their arms. Dangerous for all of them if they couldn’t get this finished up quickly. They’d been up for thirty-six hours hunting information, fighting their way out of a bad spot, and now buzzed on righteous anger for the last four because it looked like they finally had their guy. 

Over by the apartment door, Warren’s hand snapped up, his arm a line of dark and light where his jacket slipped down exposing the white cuff of his shirt. They all went still. He circled his hand in the air once and stepped into the lee of the door. Desai was here. 

Time to talk. 

The door slid open, and light spilled in from the hallway. Desai turned to lock up, clutching his umbrella with one hand and reaching for the lock with the other. 

Warren pressed the muzzle of his gun to Desai’s temple. 

“Lock the door and step into the room. Don’t make a sound.”

There was a startled gasp and then a blur of assent from Desai. Warren waited until the door was locked and then backed into the room, turning Desai toward where Isaac was waiting. 

“That’s far enough,” Doug said. He’d moved with Warren to stand in front of Isaac. 

“What’s going-“ Desai began, his umbrella and messenger bag falling to the floor, desperation leaking through every syllable.

“Shut up,” Warren said, harsher than Isaac had ever heard him. Desai yelped. Isaac assumed that it was from the hard press of metal against his skin. “Answer our questions first. Then we’ll see what happens to you.”

“But… but…” 

“I said, shut. Up.”

Desai bobbed his head in the air and gulped. 

“What are you doing in San Francisco?” Isaac asked. It was an easy enough question. Something to settle Desai down, warm him up for the harder, more important ones. 

“I… I have – the charity has an office. Here. It has an office here in San Francisco.”

“Why here?”

“Why not?” Desai’s body rocked forward, a push from Warren. “My friend! My friend runs it. He lives here. So we started it here.”

“Who?” Isaac already knew the answer to this one, but it was like a lie detector test, ask the questions, see how he answered and keep going.

“Jason Anton.”

Isaac nodded, and Warren backed off just far enough to let Desai breathe. 

“How do you know Mother?”

“Mother? My mother?” Desai turned his head, trying to see into the shadows. “What are you talking about?”

“Mother.” Isaac growled. “Deals in sex trafficking and slave trading. Mother. We know you’ve dealt with her.”

“I don’t know what the fuck--“ Warren pushed Desai from behind and he stumbled, slipping in the pool of rain water that had collected around the umbrella at his feet. “Stop! Please! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Isaac watched Desai fall to the ground and let Warren loom over him for a moment. 

“Your trips to Senegal, to Amsterdam and to Spain. All of them stops on the slave trade.”

“What?! Slave trade? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Conveniently timed with benefit concerts. But with each trip in the last five years, you’ve made thousands of dollars personally.”

“No! None of that money is mine. None of it!”

“You kept the foundation out of it. Can’t have the kids getting tangled up in your sick little side business can we?” Isaac sneered. 

“No! I swear! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Sex trafficking. Selling human beings into sexual slavery.”

“No.” Desai shook his head, his dark bangs falling into his eyes with every jerky move. “There’s no such thing. Not here! Not in this country!” 

Isaac laughed, a short, sharp, bark of sound that was anything but amused. “No one ever thinks it can happen in America, but it does. All. The. Time. Pretty girls and innocent boys lured by the promise of money and fame, of a quick fix and an easy ride. Some of them want to come here from other places, to the bright lights and big lies of the American Dream. Others want the old world glamour of Europe.”

Isaac knelt down beside Desai, looked into his terrified eyes and wondered if he was shattering a part of Desai’s carefully built innocence or feeding his fantasies. How good was Desai at lying? 

“People do it for money and power,” Isaac whispered. “They sell lives just because they can. They break bodies because they think it’s fun and they leave the carcasses for other people to clean up when they are bored.”

Desai flinched, backing away from Isaac’s relentless words and into Warren’s legs. 

“No. No. No.”

“Yes,” Isaac whispered, leaning forward. A part of him needed to see Desai break, needed to hear the truth so fucking badly. He took a deep breath and made himself calm down. He was better than his anger. And this wasn’t about anger. This was about truth, finding the truth and putting away the bastards who would sell humans into slavery. “Yes…”

“No! Please, don’t…” Desai was clutching at Warren, pleading at him with body and voice. “Please… I can get you money… anything you want, just not… that…”

“What?” Isaac asked, startled. “No! We’re not that. We won’t. Shit!” He turned to Doug with his hands outstretched. Doug stepped out of the shadows and knelt beside Desai. 

“It’s okay, kid. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Please!”

“Shhh, its okay.” Doug said again, his voice soft as a papa bear. “I promise. We’re just here trying to get information.”

“Information?”

“Yeah.” Doug nodded, his nearly bald head and dirty white shirt gleams of light in the center of the room. 

“I don’t know anything.” 

“Several of the business trips you took in the last five years,” Isaac said, trying to be as calm and clear as possible now “the ones to Spain, Senegal and Amsterdam, happen to coincide with a very large deposit in an offshore bank account in your name.”

“What?”

Isaac held up his hand, and Desai went quiet. “The thing is, each of those cities is a hub for sex traffic and the buying and selling of sex slaves.” Desai gasped. “We’ve broken rings in each one of those cities in the last five years and now your name has come up in connection with each ring.”

“No! No! No!”

“Why would you of all people be involved in sex trafficking?”

“I wouldn’t! I’m not! I swear!” Desai shuddered, his arms coming up in a windmill of motion. Doug grabbed hold of his arms and held on, keeping him in place. Warren stepped forward and pressed his gun to Desai’s temple. 

“Hold!” Isaac held up one hand and Warren stopped pressing down on Desai. He didn’t release him but he did pull back a hair. 

“You need to be very careful right now, Anoop. Very, very careful. We have information about you that says you are the worst kind of man. A man who would sell out a friend, and not just sell him out but sell him into hell. If you want me to think something different about you, you need to tell me the truth. All of it.”

“Yes! Of course! Anything!” 

Isaac looked at Desai. It was too dark to see much beyond his terror, but the terror was clear; he stank of it. 

“Lights.”

“Boss?” Warren asked. 

“Lights,” Isaac repeated. He needed to see Desai’s face and they needed Desai to feel safe, a little light would go a long way.

Warren sighed and went to hunt up the switch plate for the room. A moment later the room was flooded with light. Desai blinked up at Isaac. 

“Let him up,” Isaac said. He nodded to the couch. “Sit.”

Doug nodded and helped Desai to stand then get settled on the couch before taking up a position right behind Desai. 

Isaac took the armchair across from Desai and was unsurprised when Warren took a position off to one side but clearly between Isaac and Desai. He was faintly amused to see that Warren’s suit was immaculate, as always. How the guy managed to save Isaac’s ass, fight bad guys and keep from bloodying his clothes Isaac would never know. 

“Okay. Let’s start again. You’ve been doing a lot of traveling over the last five years.”

Desai nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why Amsterdam, Spain and Senegal?”

Desai shrugged, and there was the evasion Isaac had been looking for. “They just seemed like good places to do shows you know?”

“Three times in Spain. Four in Senegal. Six in Amsterdam? You made a name for yourself on Idol, but you’re not that big.”

“My agent got calls requesting me. And the,” he shrugged again, that same odd nervous tic kind of motion, “charity got inquiries for assistance. So we set things up. You know?”

Isaac studied Desai. There was definitely something going on. He just couldn’t peg what. “Okay, let’s say that’s true. What about the money? “

“What money?”

“The offshore account.”

“I don’t have any offshore accounts!”

Isaac nodded to Doug who pulled a smartphone out of his jacket pocket, thumbed it on and handed it to Desai. 

“According to Cayman National Bank you do.”

Desai stared at the information on the screen. Isaac knew what it showed. Five hundred thousand dollars deposited over four and a half years. More than half of that transferred back out in the same amount of time to accounts around the world. 

“I didn’t. I don’t… This isn’t mine. I swear to you!”

“So no one paid you to transport people from the United States to those three countries and sell them to other sex rings?”

Desai’s response was instantaneous. “NO!”

“You didn’t accept money to transport Adam Lambert to Spain in July of 2009?”

“What?! No!” 

Isaac pushed on, cutting off Desai’s protests. “You didn’t knowingly sell a friend of yours, someone you had worked with, sung on stage with, into sexual slavery?!”

“NO! Never!” Desai stopped, his eyes wide. “Oh my god. Is that… is that what happened to Adam? No. No.” 

“Yes,” Isaac said.

“Oh god.” Desai covered his mouth and bit back a sob. “God, Adam.” 

Isaac looked up at Warren. Warren nodded and put his gun his into its holster under his arm. Isaac turned to watch Doug nod and step back. So they were in agreement. Someone had set Desai up. _Damn it!_

“Anoop,” Isaac said quietly. When Desai didn’t look up he spoke again, more forcefully. “Anoop.” 

Desai raised his head and swiped the back of one hand across his eyes. 

“Why did you make those trips?”

Desai shook his head. “I told you.”

“The real reason. Please.”

Desai hesitated, his mouth working at answers, but no words coming out. 

“Listen to me. Someone set you up. Someone made it look like you sold Adam Lambert to a slave ring.”

“NO!”

“They planted evidence so specific that it fooled our team, and this is what we do for a living, into thinking that you are the one responsible for Lambert’s disappearance from the U.S.. Then they made it look like you kept working with the same slave rings over the next five years. If those files get out you will go to prison on sex trafficking charges. Given that most of those rings have had not only adults in them but children, you’ll be held on child endangerment, child prostitution and child pornography as well.”

“Oh my god.”

“Now. Why those cities?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I do.”

“He made it sound so simple. So… reasonable.”

“They usually do.”

Desai nodded. “I was just so lost. So confused. We didn’t know what to do, and without a contract through Idol… Well, I didn’t know if I would have a contract at first. It was all so confusing. So many people saying so many things. And she got sick so quickly.”

Doug sucked in a breath behind Desai. He knew this Ponzi scheme all too well. Been played and lost everything. 

“Who? Who was sick?”

Desai looked up, tears in his eyes. “My mother.”

Isaac sighed. Of course, the cancer that had gone into remission the year before Desai appeared on Idol. “The cancer came back?”

“Yes.” Desai nodded. “So fast. So many tests. So many doctors. So many bills. And then, like a miracle he offered to help. He said he would take care of everything and he did.” Desai’s face lit up, like a child at Christmas offered the best gift in the world. “She got in to see the top doctors in the country, airplane tickets and all the hotel costs covered, all the medication and all the tests. Everything. It was perfect.”

Desai went silent. 

“Too perfect,” Doug said into the silence. 

Desai looked back; eyes searching Doug’s face and then nodded. “Yes. Every one of those trips you mentioned was payment for my mother’s treatment.”

“What did they want you to do?”

Desai shrugged, his face scrunched up. “It was odd. All he said was to make certain that I booked benefit concerts in each of those cities on specific dates. Take a briefcase with me and give it to a friend of his. I could even look in the case. There was never anything but paperwork inside. The whole thing seemed harmless enough. It was good for the charity and the kids, and my mother got her treatment.”

“But?” Isaac prompted.

“I missed one.” Desai paused. “Just one. It was after Nine-Eleven, you know what hell air travel in and out of the country was like and, well look at me.” Desai gestured to his face and arms and Isaac sighed. Racial profiling was still not great these days but it beat life right after the Towers came down. With his dark skin and slender build, so easily mistaken for Middle Eastern, not even his U.S. birth certificate was likely to keep Desai from being tagged at least once in those days.

Desai pushed his shaggy black hair out of his eyes. “I got pulled from line and detained until someone got their head out of their asses and figured out that just because my skin isn’t titanium white doesn’t mean I’m a fucking terrorist.

“By the time they let me back into the terminal, I’d missed my plane and the one after that. Missed the concert completely. The foundation covered the costs for the venue and I thought everything was fine until I got home.”

Doug’s hand was balled into a fist behind Desai. 

“What happened?” Isaac asked.

“He denied my mother’s treatments for six months. No chemotherapy, no medication, no doctor visits, nothing.” Doug swore. “She lost nearly all the ground she had made. Taught me a lesson, though.” Desai laughed. It was so very bitter. “Never missed another concert date.”

“And the Grand Cayman account?”

“I swear to you, I have no idea about that account. If I did, I would have paid for my mother’s treatment on my own!”

Isaac shook his head and fought back a sigh. “Fine. Then who owns it?”

“I have no fucking idea. I never even met the guy who gave us the money.”

“What?”

“Never. The bills just got paid every month, except when they didn’t.”

“But you know who paid them, right?”

Desai shook his head. “No.”

“How the hell?”

“Said it was better that way. An anonymous gift to the community. Seemed harmless at the time.”

“Yeah… they always do.” Isaac fought the urge to punch something. Instead, he stood up and paced away from Desai. 

“I swear to you… I had no idea how bad things could get. Or to Adam. God… Adam.”

Isaac looked back over his shoulder. Desai was slumped on the couch, his head in his heads, shaking. If he wasn’t crying, it wouldn’t be long till the adrenaline and shock wore off and the anger and pain kicked in. Isaac knew exactly what that felt like. 

He turned away and kept moving, away from Desai’s pain, away from Warren and Doug, away from their failure. 

The window in the dining room stopped him. The rain had slowed to a kind of fog, turning the dark streets misty and gray. Isaac pressed his face to the cool glass and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, trying to smell the rain. All he got was leftover pizza. 

He hadn’t told Desai everything; there was no point. More than that, he’d promised Adam he wouldn’t tell anyone what he knew. Wouldn’t tell the world how he’d been the one to find Adam broken and bleeding, begging for death because it had to be better than the hell he’d been living in. 

Isaac turned his head when he felt Doug step up beside him. 

“You going to tell the Count? Or are you going to have Lee tell him?”

Isaac shook his head. “I’ll tell him myself. I owe him that much.”

“Okay.” Doug gripped his shoulder. “Warren and I’ll get a team set up to cover Desai and his family. Are we taking over the medical coverage for his mother?”

Isaac nodded. 

“You want to talk to Soph about that? Or should I?”

Isaac sighed. “Can you? Let her know I’ll call her later.”

“Sure thing,” Doug said, squeezing his shoulder once more before slipping away. 

Isaac closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to break the window and every fucking thing around him. To be so close to knowing who had hurt Adam, only to lose the trail again! It was almost too much to take. 

 

March 2012  
Sex trafficking ring compound  
Amsterdam, the Netherlands

 

“Room ten is contained. One and one, male.” 

“Eleven, clear.”

“Room twelve contained. One and two, male, both underage. We need a medic.”

“Shit,” Isaac swore under his breath as the call they’d been dreading came through. Confirmation that this ring had in fact been dealing in children as well as adults. 

So far the team, a mix of Interpol and Phoenix Fire security personnel, had found thirty-five men and now the two boys. They had two more floors of the compound to search, that they knew of. If they were lucky, none of the traffickers would be able to get messages to anyone hiding in the building. Sometimes they killed their “stock” rather than let the police interview them. 

Isaac swung his flashlight across the width of the hall in front of him, paused to listen. When nothing moved, he stepped forward, waving his men to follow him. 

This was the one part of the compound they knew the least about. It was the top floor, away from all the “guest” rooms and, as far as any of their plants could tell them, only used by the most exclusive of clients, but no one knew who or what was kept up here. There were rumors that the ring was branching out. Their recent jump in finances certainly spoke of something going well in their business plan, but if that was drugs, money laundering or what, no one had been able to find out. 

“Room seventeen contained. One and one, male.” 

Isaac let the radio chatter wash over him as he moved down the darkened hallway. There was a sliver of light coming from up ahead, just under what should be a door. Isaac held up one hand and his team stopped moving. 

He toggled his mic on. “Phoenix Two, to base.”

“Base to Phoenix Two, go.”

“We’re at the suite. There’s light and music coming from inside.”

“Copy. Stay live, and we’ll track you as you breach.”

“Roger that,” Isaac waved Mike, his second in command, up beside him near the door. The others fell into place around them and waited while Mike got the camera wire pushed under the door and the feed running on the handset. 

Bright light flooded the hallway as the image flicked into focus. The room on the other side of the door was as lavish as Isaac had expected, marble walls and silk hangings, crystal and gold, flowers and fruit set out everywhere. Take about half of the things away and it might have been nice, if you could forget where they were. 

The image rotated as Mike remotely turned the camera searching the room for bodies. 

“There-“ Mike said. “Looks like one and one, maybe male – I can’t get a solid fix on gender for either.”

Isaac tapped Mike on the shoulder, agreement and confirmation that he’d seen the same images. “Do one more sweep to be sure, then we’ll go in.”

“Copy,” Mike said. The image on screen wavered again as Mike used the camera to scan the area. “Looks clean.”

“Let’s hope.” Isaac circled his had once and then waved his team forward. Patrick, their entry specialist, slid into place, checking the room’s handle and then quickly picking the lock and pushing the door open for the others to slip through. 

Inside, even as bright as the room was, they had the advantage as the perp had his back to the door and was completely focused on his actions. Isaac couldn’t see what the guy was doing, but he could imagine it from the sounds – the wet smack of flesh against flesh under the ragged moans of pleasure from the perp and hoarse, nearly breathless pleas from his victim. 

The sickest part of the whole thing was the music playing over everything – a video on the large screen television of one of the contestants from American Idol a few years back. The guy, good looking, with black hair and a hint of eyeliner, looked familiar somehow, even though Isaac had never seen the show before. 

The room smelled of stale sweat, sex, alcohol and something thick and gut-churning that Isaac always associated with terror. He’d smelled it at every site they’d been to where people had been brutalized. It was piss and shit and hopelessness all wrapped up in one and it permeated the room. 

The team swept through the suite, most pairing off to check and cover all the exits and windows, while Isaac, Mike and four others surrounded the perp. 

“Freeze!” Isaac shouted, gun aimed at the perp’s head. “Hands up!” 

“Son of a bit-“ the guy cried, his long brown braid flying around his head as he tried to thrust one last time into the body under him. Mike reached forward and pulled him away with a vicious twist of his arms. 

“What the hell?!” the guy shouted, his hands grasping at air as he twisted in Mike’s hold. The guy’s dress shirt was sweaty and stained with come and blood. It was unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders. His slacks were long gone, but he still had his socks and incongruously shiny black leather loafers on.

“You’re under arrest for participation in prostitution and the illegal trade of humans for sexual acts without consent.” Yves, the Interpol liaison to Isaac’s team, pushed the perp farther away from the victim with each word he spoke. Yves worked in the sex crimes unit, like most of the guys did, because he was passionate about saving people who had lost their voice to bastards like this perp. 

“Better add torture and attempted murder to that list,” Andre, their medic said from where he knelt beside the victim. 

The guy, Isaac could tell all too clearly it was a man now, was nearly naked, the remnants of a shirt clinging to his arms, bits of fabric, jeans maybe, hanging off his legs. And he was bound to the bed. He was bleeding from a dozen horizontal cuts on his right arm, all far too regular to be scratch marks. There were finger shaped bruises around his neck that looked days old, more bruising along his torso and all along his thighs and circular scars on the insides of his thighs. Whoever this guy was, he’d been through hell and back, twice. 

Yves looked back at the guy in Andre’s care, winced, nodded and turned back to the perp and pushed him toward the other side of the suite. 

Isaac knelt beside Andre. “Will he make it?”

Andre glanced over at Isaac for a moment, then went back to assessing the damage. “Too soon to tell. There’s a lot of damage here. A lot. And long term.”

Andre cut the ropes binding the guy’s legs and arms in place. Isaac helped Andre lower his arms then had to hold on as the guy twisted in their grasp and cried out, or tried to, the sound that came out of his mouth sounded almost inhuman. 

“It’s okay,” Andre said. He let go of the guy’s arm and held up his hands, palms out. Isaac followed suit. “You’re safe now. We’re here to help.”

“Just relax,” Isaac added, tugging off his helmet and edged closer. ”We’re gonna get you out of here and get you medical help, okay?”

“I – I can’t ,” the guy croaked. His voice was harsh and gravelly, as though he’d been smoking four or five packs of cigarettes a day for years. Or screaming for a lifetime. 

“It’s okay,” Andre repeated. “We’re with the police. Interpol is here to shut these guys down. You’re safe.”

“Safe?” The guy asked, his eyes wide, terrified, like the word was too much to believe. Isaac had seen that look before. It broke his heart every time. 

“Safe.” Isaac nodded. “I promise.”

“Make it stop. Please, make it stop,” the guy begged, his voice so broken it was nearly inaudible. 

“We’re going to get you out of here.”

The guy shook his head. “They’ll find me. They said they would. They said. Kill me-- Please, just kill me. Make it stop.”

Isaac fought down the bile at the back of his throat and held on to the guy’s arm. He didn’t know what to say to help this guy but he would be damned if he would kill him. He’d kill every bastard who’d hurt him though, several times, and hang their bodies for the crows. 

“We’ll make it stop. I promise.” 

“Boss –“ Mike said from behind Isaac. “You’d better see this.”

Isaac gripped the guy’s arm once, hoping to be reassuring, and let go. He patted Andre on the shoulder and stood up. “What is it?”

Mike handed Isaac a file folder. Inside were clippings of the same American Idol who was singing in the video. Some were of the competition but a few were about his abduction. 

“No way…” Isaac looked over at the man on the bed with Andre. Under the blood and sweat his hair was glossy black, a recent dye job probably and there were traces of make-up on his face. The pieces clicked into place as the guy looked up and over at Isaac. His eyeliner was smudged from crying, and his blue, blue eyes were begging Isaac to end his pain. 

“Oh shit.” 

They’d found the reason the ring had been making so much fucking money… it just wasn’t what they’d ever expected. The bastards had been selling Adam Lambert to the highest fucking bidder and breaking him bit by bit each time. 

“Base,” Isaac said into his mic. “Change of plans.”

“What’s the problem, Phoenix Two?”

“Terrance? Give me a secure line. Just you and me.”

“Shit,” Terrance said once over the link, then Isaac heard a set of clicks followed by silence as his boss made the changes necessary. “All right, Isaac, we’re secure. Explain.”

“We found Adam Lambert.”

“You what?”

“You heard me. These bastards have that Idol kid, the one who disappeared a few years back. They had him in the top floor suite. He’s their golden goose. And they’ve damn near killed him.”

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

“Pretty much,” Isaac agreed. “He just asked me to kill him and stop all the pain.”

“Oh fuck.”

“Yeah. Look, I don’t know if we can do anything for him after we get him out of here, or what he would even want to do with his life after this...”

“Probably hide forever.”

“Maybe, but it’s not our decision. What we can do is give him the freedom to choose.”

“Right, which means getting him out of there without anyone knowing he was ever there.” 

Isaac could almost see Terrance nodding and the wheels turning in his head. 

“So,” Isaac said, “we’re gonna need to extract him before the locals arrive. And-- we need to trash the hard drives.”

“Damn.”

“I know. But--“

“Yeah. Has Yves seen him yet?”

“Yep.”

“All right. Get Yves to help you then. See if Cameron can pull the hard drives and whatever files you guys find before you leave, but if you can’t…”

“I know boss. SOP. We trash everything.”

“How bad is he physically?”

“Andre says bad.”

Terrance sighed. “We’ll have a med team waiting for you on the other side.”

“Roger that.” Isaac looked back over at Andre and Lambert. “Anything else?”

“Not unless you find the next Dalai Lama.”

“Don’t even joke about that!”

“Right.” Terrance was silent for a moment. “Okay, locals are ten minutes out.”

“Copy. Here we go.”

“Switching back to open com,” Terrance said. 

There was a burst of clicks, silence, and then Isaac was back on the chatter of the open com line. 

“Phoenix Two to Base, proceeding with extraction.”

“Base to Phoenix Two, copy that. Good Luck.”

Isaac turned and waved Cameron and Yves over as he turned to survey the room. “Cameron, I need you to find every bit of data on our vic. ASAP. Hard and Soft. Pull it if you can. If you can’t – trash it. We have ten minutes to get out without the locals seeing us.”

Cameron’s eyes went wide but he nodded and walked away. He was already tugging his laptop from his backpack as he waved two others to join him.

Yves stood waiting. 

“We’re taking him out on our terms,” Isaac said. Yves looked over at Andre and Lambert, his eyes distant for a moment and then understanding hit. 

“Of course,” Yves said. “Lord de Cowell will know best how to help him. Take him and care for him. I will deal with the local police.”

“Thank you.” 

Yves turned back to the perp with a nod. Yves was good people. They’d worked with him, passing leads back and forth on more than one case around Europe. Isaac occasionally wondered if Yves wanted to come over to the private sector, but they really needed all the good contacts inside Interpol that they could get. Maybe he’d mention to Lord Simon how much help Yves had been once again, get him a good size Christmas bonus or something. 

Crouching down beside Andre once more, Isaac looked at Lambert. Andre had gotten a sheet wrapped around Lambert’s waist and another one over his shoulders. It wasn’t pretty but it was a hell of a lot better than taking him out half-naked and bleeding. Lambert was glassy eyed with shock and blood loss. They needed to get him to the med team ASAP. 

“Tell me he’s ready to move, Andre.”

“Do we have a choice?”

Isaac closed his eyes and shook his head. “No.”

“Then he’s ready.”

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Andre and Isaac lifted Lambert off the bed and between them, maneuvered him out of the room and through the dark hallways. Over the headset Isaac could still hear the last teams counting off their findings in the remaining rooms and the first reports of contact with the local police. Yves was heading down to the lower levels to meet them, his perp already on his way to an Interpol jail cell. Now all Isaac had to do was get a brutalized and formerly missing Idol singer safely out of hell and into the Count de Cowell’s haven.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four  
Terrance Spencer, Chief of Security for the Count de Cowell and Phoenix Fire Industries  
Monday April 28, 2014

 

The flickering light of the video monitors was the only illumination in Terrance’s office. His inside, windowless room in Phoenix Fire’s LA offices was perfect for dealing with all the surveillance and recording material he needed to sort through for this gig. And given that events in his past had soured his opinion of heights, he was cool with Lee, Sophie and the boss having the fancy offices with the windows that looked out over Promenade at the Howard Hughes Center. He wasn’t much into shopping malls any more anyway. 

For days like today, Terence needed the darkness. Reviewing days’ worth of pre-recorded video surveillance meant hours of watching people living their lives. On the good days it was boring: people cooking, cleaning, going about their business. Monotonous but easy enough to watch. Since they hunted scum, however, his days were rarely good and the images rarely pleasant. Too often the recordings he scanned through were filled with violence and hate, scenes that played like memories of the years he’d lived as a slave in a sex ring. 

Maybe he didn’t need the darkness; maybe he actually needed the light. If he thought about it, it was probably a little messed up that he watched the video feeds alone in the dark, but it just felt right. The people he helped were all alone in the dark. With the lights off, they were together, connected through pixels and sound waves. He could purge his own demons by helping others get out of hell and putting abusers away for as long as possible. 

Terrance shook his head. It was dangerous to get too sentimental over these cases. Not all the people they watched were victims and not all of them were good people. And getting too close to the ones who were good and lost or trapped had its problems. 

He hit pause as something on the recorded feed caught his eye. 

On the screen, Daniel Gokey entered the penthouse that Tommy Ratliff was living in. He strode through the door with a too sure grin, taking off his too modern jacket and bright yellow tie and dropping them on the first available surface. There was something menacing in the way he moved, like a predator sniffing out its prey. It made Terrance’s skin crawl.

Gokey was clearly just as at home here as he was in the house he shared with Kara. Maybe even more so, and that cleared up one question right away. Gokey was a regular at the penthouse, not just its owner. He strode through the apartment. It was all very casual, but there was something in his body language that set off alarm bells in Terrance. 

Gokey stopped in the kitchen and picked up a half full glass of red wine. He looked up as another man entered the room. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Gokey snarled. 

“I’m sorry, didn’t hear you come in,” the man said. It had to be Ratliff. No one else was in the apartment at the moment. Ratliff reached across the counter for the glass of wine but Gokey snatched it out of reach. 

“I’m hungry.”

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” Ratliff said quietly. 

Terrance cocked his head. There was something odd about that voice, something painfully familiar. Ratliff hadn’t talked much in all the hours Terrance had watched so far, so he couldn’t be sure of the natural timbre of Ratliff’s voice, but this didn’t sound right, didn’t sound like someone who was happy to see his lover or friend or whatever they were to each other. 

“I told you when I would be home. Dinner was supposed to be ready by now. How many fucking times do I have to explain that to you?”

“I’m sorry. You said you would be here at 7:30… that’s ten minutes from-“ 

Gokey threw the last of the wine at Ratliff then tossed the glass aside. It shattered against a cabinet in a streak of red. Gokey stalked around the kitchen island toward Ratliff, who backed away at first, his hands brushing at the wine on his skin, then stopped, his body rigid. 

“I don’t give a shit what time it is, slut. You do what I tell you to do.” Gokey grabbed Ratliff by the throat and spun him around so he was facing the counter and coincidently, the camera. 

Terrance fought down a burst of anger. He tensed, fear spiking along with memories. He’d been pushed around in the same way. 

On the video, Ratliff’s face held pure terror. 

That was the last piece of the puzzle. This was no pre-established, consensual game between lovers. There were no safe words in that apartment. Gokey did what he chose to do and Ratliff had no choice but to take what came at him. Ratliff was as much a slave as Terrance had been, as the boss had been. 

Terrance watched in silence as Gokey did something behind Ratliff, and from the sound of tearing cloth, he knew what was coming. Ratliff would be exposed, Gokey would open his own trousers and then – Gokey shoved up against Ratliff, grunting as he fucked into Ratliff hard and fast without warning. Terrance watched, stood witness because someone needed to, someone should know what Ratliff – what Tommy- had been through, as Tommy gripped the counter and squeezed his eyes and mouth shut against the pain, fighting off his cries as long as possible. 

A timer went off as Gokey brutalized Tommy, the warning for their dinner most likely, but he didn’t stop. Tommy’s eyes snapped open, a new look of horror in them. 

“I have to-“ Tommy tried, pushing and twisting under Gokey. 

“Don’t fucking move!” 

“But dinner!”

“Not. My. Fault if it’s ruined, you stupid little whore,” Gokey ground out between thrusts. Gokey shouted at the end and froze, his body locking up as his orgasm overtook him. Tommy struggled against the counter, his fingers clenching and unclenching over and over again. 

Terrance heard the door to his office open and felt a hand on his shoulder a moment later. 

“It’s just me,” Lee said, sliding into the seat next to him. “Is this Ratliff’s place?”

Terrence nodded, unwilling to look away from what was happening on the screen.   
On the surveillance tape Gokey pulled out, grabbed a tea-towel from the counter and wiped himself off. He looked down at Tommy who lay like a broken doll on the counter, his eyes open, but Terrance suspected they weren’t seeing anything in that room. 

“Can’t get one little thing right, can you? Now I have to go eat dinner with my wife. Christ. You disgust me.” Gokey looked around the room, pausing at the wine-stained cabinet. “Clean this place up. I’ll be back in a day or two, and we’ll try again.” 

Gokey wiped his hands one last time, tossed the cloth he’d been using on Tommy’s exposed ass and walked out. A moment later they heard the door to the apartment slam shut and saw Tommy flinch. 

Terrance raised a hand to the video screen, his fingers touching the image of Tommy where he lay on the counter, and watched as Tommy cried for a long time, not moving except for the shaking of his shoulders. 

The light in the apartment changed, shadows filling the screen around the cluster of overhead lights that shone down on the wrecked kitchen like spotlights. 

Tommy finally pulled himself off the counter and stumbled out of the kitchen. A few seconds later they heard the sound of water from the direction of bathroom. Terrance went to switch feeds but Lee put a hand out to stop him. 

“Leave it for now.”

Terrance nodded and pulled back. Lee shifted in his seat, turning to face him and waited while Terrance took several deep breaths and pulled himself away from Tommy’s hell. 

When he looked up, Lee nodded. 

“Tell me.”

“Gokey owns him. As much as I was owned or the boss. Worse maybe because there’s just him and Gokey. He doesn’t have anything or anyone else to connect with. Just those windows to look out of.”

“And remember.”

“Yeah.”

“Does he leave the apartment at all?”

“Not so far as I’ve seen. Food is all delivered, no calls in or out except for those from Gokey. I don’t know if he locked the outgoing calls or if he’s just got Tommy so scared that he doesn’t even try any more.”

“Computer?”

“None that I’ve seen.”

“So what’s he doing with his time?”

“Not much. Some reading, a lot of TV and movies, and he’s got a guitar.”

“He still plays?” Lee asked, sounding pleasantly surprised. 

“Yeah, a lot actually. He sounds pretty good too.”

“Huh. Pull one of those up for me.”

“In order?”

“Sure, might as well.”

“Okay.” Terrance scanned through the sequence codes in the computer, watching the feed on the monitor as the recordings of Tommy’s life sped past. He paused in a couple of places expecting Tommy to head for the living room where his guitar lived on a stand near the window, but each time, Tommy veered away. He seemed to have retreated into himself in the days following Gokey’s attack. He ate little and slept a lot. 

They watched Tommy cook dinner at high speed and then sit at the table in near darkness as the meal went cold and Gokey failed to show up. Tommy eventually fell asleep at the table and was still there as dawn lit up the apartment. 

Lee grunted and shook his head. 

Several depressing hours of tape later, Tommy finally picked up his guitar and Terrance slowed the feed to normal speed. 

On the screen Tommy’s face relaxed as the music poured out of the guitar, soft at first then angry and bitter, then sweet and mournful. There were bits of songs Terrance recognized but mostly Tommy seemed to play from his heart and his emotions. He never stopped to write any of it down, just played with single-minded focus. 

Terrance and Lee were so lost in Tommy in his playing that they missed when Gokey entered the apartment and came to stand over him. 

“So this is what you waste your fucking time on all day long. I should have known,” Gokey snarled. 

Tommy snapped his eyes open, his hands freezing in place on the strings. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

Gokey backhanded Tommy, sending him flying off the ottoman. “Don’t you fucking tell me you’re sorry!” 

Gokey advanced on Tommy who pushed himself backwards toward the wall of windows. Gokey lashed out with his foot, connecting with Tommy’s hands and arms. 

“I’m sorry. Please!”

“Fucking bitch!” Gokey shouted. “Messing everything up! Ungrateful whore!”

“What did I do?!” 

“What did you do?” Gokey kicked out at Tommy, getting past his arms and connecting with something closer in, Terrance couldn’t tell what, but he saw Tommy wince in pain and hunch over trying to protect himself. “What did you do? You fucking-“ 

Gokey struck out at Tommy again and then turned. He looked for a moment like he was going to walk away but then he reached down and picked up the discarded guitar. 

“Danny… please!” Tommy surged up, arms out stretched, reaching for his guitar.

“I gave you everything you asked for! A home, money, security! Everything you need! And this is the thanks I get back!” Gokey turned the guitar in his hands so he was holding it by the neck like a baseball bat. He raised it over his shoulder and brought it down on Tommy’s upraised arm. 

“No!” Lee and Terrance said together, powerless to stop what had already happened. 

“Whore!” 

Gokey smashed the guitar against Tommy over and over again. 

“Useless, no-good, talent-less, slut!”

The guitar shattered around Tommy, pieces flying everywhere, the metal strings coiling and bouncing in the air as they lost tension. Tommy cowered, head bowed, his arms wrapped tightly around his face and ears. He cried out with each blow, but never asked Gokey to stop. 

“What did you do?” Gokey sneered. He stepped back, tossed the remains of the guitar aside, and pulled something out of his jacket pocket. He tossed it at Tommy with a sneer. “You brought Simon Fucking Fuller down on my head, that’s what, you worthless piece of trash!”

“Oh, shit,” Lee said. He leaned in toward the monitor. 

“I didn’t…” Tommy said, grabbing the cream-colored envelope as it fell from Gokey’s hands. “I swear!”

“Open it!”

“Is that…?” Terrance asked, turning to look at Lee.

“I’m afraid it is.” 

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Tommy had the envelope open and the cream and gold invitation out when Terrance turned back to the screen. Tommy’s eyes were wide, his lips moving in a faint echo as he read the words. 

“Me? This count guy wants me to come to your event?” Tommy looked up at Gokey, shock written all over his face. “That’s insane.”

“Fuller insisted.”

Tommy’s mouth dropped open. “Um…”

“Get the fuck up.” Gokey turned away from Tommy and started pacing around the living room. “Fuller says you’re coming to the Gala, you’re coming to the Gala.”

“But I don’t-“

“Shut up.” Gokey turned on Tommy, hand raised up. Tommy pulled back, ducking down as far as he could away from Gokey while still looking up. Gokey dropped his hand without touching Tommy. “Just shut up. You will go. Just don’t fuck this up. Fuller could end me if you screw this up. The Count could fucking end anyone he wanted to with a thought.” 

Gokey was pacing again, talking to himself more than Tommy it seemed. 

“And now his people have to show up asking so many goddamn questions! Who the hell is he anyway? Shit!” 

Gokey dropped down onto the couch across from Tommy and pushed his fingers through his hair. When Terrance looked over at Tommy, he was staring at Gokey with huge eyes, almost like he didn’t recognize the man. 

“Look at Tommy,” Terrance said to Lee. 

“Huh,” Lee huffed. “I’m guessing Gokey’s not a big talker most days.”

“Yeah… looks that way.”

“Too fucking close,” Gokey was muttering. “Too close. Too damn close. If he talks… if anyone saw... Shit.” 

Gokey pushed off the couch and started pacing again, muttering too quietly for the bugs to pick up. He paced back to Tommy and stopped. He just stood there looking down at Tommy for a long moment. Tommy stared and hardly seemed to breathe as he waited, as Terrance and Lee did, to see what Gokey would do next. Finally Gokey squatted down and grabbed Tommy’s face in one hand. Tommy cried out, his arms thrashing around him. 

“Don’t you say a fucking thing to anyone at the Gala. Just be the pretty little whore that you are and I’ll get you a new guitar. If you can do that.” Gokey nodded his head. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

Tommy nodded, his hair flopping around his face. “I will. I swear. I’ll be so good. I promise.” 

“Of course you will. You’re my good little slut. Aren’t you?”

“I am. I’ll be good. I promise. For you.”

Gokey leaned down and kissed Tommy, taking over his mouth before Tommy had finished speaking and covering his lips with his own. Tommy’s body seemed to melt toward Gokey, going limp and boneless as Gokey’s free hand pulled Tommy in toward Gokey’s larger body. 

“Turn it off,” Lee said. 

Terrance hit the switch and the screen went dark. 

“This is going to break him.”

Terrance didn’t need to ask who Lee meant. Mitchel de Cowell had held onto the dream of Tommy Ratliff like a life preserver in the worst storm. Some nights the memory of Tommy had been the only thing that had kept him sane when he was still a slave. He’d told Terrance once that he hoped that Tommy was happy and in love at the very least, since he hadn’t been able to love Adam. Terrance had watched Mitchel fall asleep more nights than he could count with the whisper of Tommy’s name on his lips. 

“We can’t tell him,” Terrance said. “Not yet. Not until it’s all over.”

“That’s not going to be any easier.”

“No, but we need him clear-headed and functional right now. He’s up to his neck in meetings for the company and all the last minute planning with Sophie for the Gala. The tension of trying to track down who abducted and sold Lambert is bad enough, add this to it?”

“I know. Believe me I know. But he will have to know sooner or later.”

“I understand that,” Terrance said. “I do. I’m even willing to be the one to tell him… just not now. We need him sane for a little while longer.”

“Yeah. We do.” Lee nodded. “But I have to tell him about Gokey. He’s involved somehow.”

“And Fuller.”

“Damn… I wish we could get bugs into Fuller’s place!” 

“You and me both.” Terrance said. He tapped a finger on his desk, thinking. Xander had talked to a couple of Fuller’s guards and one of them had let something slip. Terrance pulled up Xander’s report on his tablet and scanned through it. 

“Xander got us a bit of information on Fuller. Nothing that made any sense before, but now I’m thinking it might just be way more interesting than I thought.” He skimmed down the report and stopped. “Ah! Here. So, David Maxwell started out as a driver for Fuller. Running Fuller back and forth to the Idol tapings for season eight was his first job.”

“Okay?”

“No big deal, except apparently on May 13th Maxwell spent the night at the,” Terrance bent his fingers in the air to make quotation marks, “swankiest titty bar ever, all on his boss’s dime.” 

“On May 13th?”

“Yep.”

“When he was, according to his statement to the police, driving Fuller home from the Idol taping.”

“Exactly.”

“Good thing Xander likes comparing notes on titty bars.”

“Good thing.”

“So,” Lee asked, tilting his head and staring at the screen in front of them. “What was Fuller doing while Maxwell had the night off?”

“A damn good question.”

 

November 2012  
Soho Hotel  
London, England

Terrance strode into the security team’s temporary office at the Soho Hotel with a scowl on his face and the warmth of Andre’s fingers lingering on his skin. It would be really nice if they could have one damn night alone together without the world falling apart. You’d think that wouldn’t be too difficult to manage. They were only in London for Christ sake, not half way around the world on a mission or something. And it wasn’t like they worked for some pain in the ass rogue boss. 

Terrance forced himself to calm his breathing and clear his thoughts. These were the drawbacks of being head of security for the Count de Cowell and Phoenix Fire Industries. He’d known that since the day he’d accepted the position. Too damn late to be getting bitchy about it now. 

“Status report,” he called out as he crossed to the bank of video monitors along the back wall of the office’s bullpen. He slipped his trench coat off and draped it over a chair, then figuring they were in for a long night, he took off his sport coat as well. He’d left his purple silk tie with Andre at the restaurant along with a really good bottle of champagne. 

“Medical has the pick-up,” Isaac started, handing him a data tablet with a preliminary report already called up. Terrance scanned it as Isaac continued. “The guy’s in rough shape. Three broken ribs, cuts on both legs and his upper arm.”

Terrance looked at Isaac. “Cuts? Not scratches?”

“Cuts. With a knife. Perfectly straight and evenly spaced. Very shallow. He was careful of the arteries this time though. Minimal blood loss, but it had to have hurt like hell.”

Terrance gripped the tablet then forced his fingers to loosen, reminding himself that any improvement in how the pick-ups were treated was a good thing. 

“It does.” 

Isaac nodded. Both of them were all too well aware of how Terrance knew that piece of trivia. 

“No tearing of the anal tissue, so that’s more good news.”

Terrance nodded. “Have you talked to the pick-up yet?”

“Briefly. He’s in pretty good shape mentally. Seems like he was good with it all until the end when the boss went spooky on him. Apparently the guy’s a lot more into pain than some of the others.”

“Lucky him.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Standard procedure with the pick-up.”

Isaac nodded. “Legal’s already got the paperwork in the pipeline and Accounting has cleared us for the usual withdrawal.” 

“Good.” 

Terrance handed the tablet back to Isaac and looked at the monitors. One displayed an overly bright image of the blood-splattered bedroom in the Terrace Suite. In the center of the bed, surrounded by mounds of feathers and scarlet silk – the remains of too many torn up pillows and years of pain- was Mitchel de Cowell. He was rocking back and forth, his bloody hands wrapped around his knees, still clutching the k-bar he always carried and had used to carve lines in his pick-up’s skin. 

Terrance bit back a sob. One thing at a time. He turned away from the screen “How did he get away this time?”

“Slipped away from Dillon when he was dancing.”

“He was what?” Mitchel never danced. 

“Yeah.” Isaac shook his head. “The guys are explaining things to Dillon right now.”

“How did he get on the detail in the first place? I thought you cleared him. You told me he was ready!”

“He was! I swear. I don’t know what happened. I ran him through everything myself. You know I wouldn’t put the boss at risk. Ever!”

Terrance raised a hand, palm out. “No. Of course not. Just… find out what happened.”

Isaac nodded. Terrance sighed. 

“I’m going to go…” he waved at the screen where Mitchel de Cowell still rocked, trapped in his nightmares. 

Isaac nodded again. “They’re waiting for you upstairs.”

 

“Mitchel?” Terrance called quietly from the bedroom door. The room was just as bad in person as it was on the security monitors. Overturned chairs, bloody sheets, ripped up pillows and his friend and employer trapped in hell on the bed. “Mitchel, it’s Terrance. Can I come in?”

The rocking stopped for a moment, then started again, the only sign that Mitchel had heard him. Taking it for acceptance, or close enough, Terrance slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him. 

Terrance righted the nearest chair as he walked, taking his time, knowing from past experience that Mitchel needed time to adjust to another person being in the room with him. Terrance picked up a couple of the less destroyed throw pillows and put them on the chair, kicked a ripped up shirt, very clearly not one of Mitchel’s, out of his way. They’d need to see about some new clothes for the pick- ups in the future. 

He picked up the overturned vase of tulips and placed it on the bedside table. A few more steps and Terrance was standing beside the bed looking into Mitchel’s eyes. They were as green as ever, his contacts still in place, but clouded by pain and fear. 

Mitchel shook his head, over and over again, his head moving in counterpoint to his body.

“I know,” Terrance said. “I know.” He opened his arms and Mitchel pressed forward into them, his whole body falling into Terrance with a sob.

“I didn’t want to. I didn’t. But I couldn’t stop. The knife was in my hand and he was smiling and talking and I couldn’t fucking stop.”

“I know. It’s okay. He’s okay.”

Mitchel pulled back, shock turning his face almost child-like. “He is?”

Terrance nodded, turned enough to sit on the bed, without releasing his hold on Mitchel and nodded again. He angled Mitchell’s hand, and the knife, away from his arm but didn’t try to take it away. It was too soon for that. “He is. A little confused, but overall he seems to think it was a pretty good night.”

“He does?”

“You picked a good one.”

“I did?”

Terrance had to smile at that. “You did.”

Mitchel stared at Terrance. “But…”

“No. You did what you needed to do. What you had to do, and this time, you picked someone who liked and could handle it, and you stopped before you really hurt him. You did good.”

“But I wanted to hurt him so much.”

“I know,” Terrance sighed. 

The tears started again, deep, soul-wracking sobs that crawled out of the depths of Mitchel’s memories and shook him for hours. Terrance held on, arms locked around Mitchel and let him cry. He listened, understanding as few others could, to the self-recrimination and self-hatred layered in with the blazing anger at those who had hurt him. 

When morning finally crept in through the curtained windows, the K-bar was on the bedside table and Mitchel was asleep in Terrance’s arms, limbs twitching, his eyes racing behind his lids, still running even in his sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five   
Sophie Carpenter, Executive Assistant to Mitchel de Cowell, Phoenix Fire Industries  
Thursday May 8, 2014

 

“Mr. Allen, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me,” Sophie said, one hand outstretched as she stood on the threshold of Kris Allen’s condo in Torrance, CA.

“Um. Hi, Ms. Carpenter, Hello, come in, please.” Allen shook Sophie’s hand and then stood aside to let her walk past him. “I’m not sure what all this is about but your assistant mentioned helping me with my contract, so I think I should maybe be thanking you.”

Sophie smiled over her shoulder, projecting calm reassurance at Allen, the same way she would at a feral dog. He had that look about him, beaten down but not yet willing to give up hope that someone somewhere would take him in, feed him and give him a warm place to sleep at night. It made Sophie’s heart ache a little more for the man. 

“Yes,” she said, “your contract and maybe a bit more.” 

She heard Allen lock the door behind her, then he was leading her through the house and into a brightly lit living room. 

“Would you like some coffee? Or juice? Ah, I think I have some soda that Cale left-“ 

“Coffee would be lovely, thank you.” 

“Right. Um, just a sec.”

Sophie looked around the room while Allen disappeared into the kitchen. She wasn’t a big coffee drinker, but she’d found over the years that accepting hospitality was a good way to get the other person to relax and settle down before she started explaining how she was about to change their lives. People’s brains had a tendency to short circuit when she started speaking, and it was easier to keep them thinking of her as a guest when they had the experience of feeding her, so to speak. It made them less likely to toss her out before she was ready to leave. 

The room was nicer than she’d expected, the whole place was actually. She knew his finances were not what anyone might have hoped for him after coming in second on American Idol but then very little about his season had been what anyone had expected. And after the disaster with Jive dropping Allen from their roster when his album bombed he’d pretty much vanished from sight. Even news of his divorce hadn’t kept him in the public eye for long, though Sophie had a few theories about the way that had been handled. There were a few too many hands in Kris Allen’s pie for her liking, too many people getting fat and comfortable while he was gathering dust in a two bedroom condo slotted between a dozen others just like it. 

Sophie shook her head. Kris Allen’s first house, the one that Katy O’Connell Allen still owned but didn’t live in at the moment, wasn’t any fancier than this place, even if it was larger and nestled in the hills. The Allens just weren’t into flash or excess, and both homes were proof of that. 

The living room was lovely actually; comfortable and welcoming with the sunlight coming in through a large picture window making the yellow walls glow. The furniture was all well loved, halfway between overused and well cared for, and arranged to highlight the fireplace that took up much of one wall. On the mantel were dozens of pictures, many of them people Sophie recognized from her files. The Allen family – both brothers and their parents- smiling around a laden table, a beautifully simple portrait of Katy O’Connell, her eyes closed and her head turned just slightly as if looking over her shoulder toward the photographer, several from Idol of Adam Lambert, Alison Iraheta and Allen together and separately, and one, hidden behind all the others of Allen and O’Connell on their wedding day, their faces full of joy. 

This was the room of a man who was making the best of a horrible situation and finding peace day by day on the other side. 

Allen cleared his throat, and Sophie turned. 

“This is a beautiful photograph,” she said pointing at the portrait of O’Connell. 

Allen dipped his head then looked back up, his gaze focused on the mantel. 

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Here’s your coffee. I didn’t know how you liked it. I have milk and sugar?” He waved at the items resting on a tray on the coffee table. 

“Milk, please.” 

Sophie smoothed her dark blue skirt under her as she settled at one end of the couch and let Allen fiddle with their coffees. She’d dressed down to meet with Allen, not so causal as to insult him, but just enough to hopefully keep him from feeling too overwhelmed. Her normal work wear was fairly severe, following de Cowell and Lee’s lead with bespoke suits custom-made for her shape and skin tone. Today was more like brunch with Isaac’s family, comfortable and easy. 

She accepted a cup from him and inhaled. She loved the rich smell. It always made her feel warm inside, more even than the taste did. When Allen sighed and sat back, she took that as a sign that he was as ready for their conversation as he was ever going to be. 

“Again, thank you for seeing me. I know you don’t know me or my employer, but trust me, we know you and your situation.” 

“Okay.”

“Has anyone approached you about a new recording contract since you left Jive?” Sophie already knew the answer, but it was important to hear from Allen what his world looked like. The truth was Kris Allen had been placed on a very select blacklist that no one seemed willing to discuss. Until de Cowell arrived. Funny what money and power would do to change people’s allegiances. 

“No. Well, not any more. There were one or two inquiries in the beginning, but those never seemed to pan out. I’d take a meeting and then never hear anything more. Most of the time, the meetings just seemed to get rescheduled until they didn’t happen.” Allen shrugged the defeat he was trying so hard to hide creeping across his features. 

Sophie nodded. “I understand. And 19 Entertainment? You are still under contract with them?”

Allen sighed. “Yeah, that turned out to be a lot more complicated than I expected.”

“I imagine it did. And when the phone calls dried up and all the offers of help disappeared, it must have looked like you were trapped there.”

“Yeah, pretty much.” 

“Well, I think we can help.”

“What do you mean?”

“Phoenix Fire Industries is involved in many things, Mr. Allen- 

“Kris, please. Mr. Allen is my dad.”

Sophie smiled and nodded. “We are involved in many things, most of them related in a way to the myth of the phoenix. Do you know it?”

“Sure,” Allen shrugged. “The bird that burns out once a year or something and then comes back to life each time.”

“Yes, it rises from the ashes of its own fire to become more than it was before. That is what we do at Phoenix Fire: we help people rise from the ashes of their lives and become more than they thought they could dream of being ever again.

“I don’t know what to say…”

Sophie shook her head. “You don’t need to say anything yet. Just listen, please.”

“Okay, um. Sure.”

“We believe that you have the potential to be a great musician, that in fact, you already are a great musician. You proved that on American Idol and with your first album.”

“But it didn’t sell-“ 

Sophie held up a hand. “There are reasons for that, things you had no control over, things we can keep from happening a second time. But first we need to get you out from under 19 E’s thumb and in with a wiser and stronger label.”

Sophie pulled a file out of her bag and handed it to Allen. He looked through the pages inside, his eyes scanning the densely packed contracts, his mouth falling open a little farther with each turned page. 

“You can’t be serious. Silver Dragon Records?” 

“You have a meeting with Aaron and Sabryna at their office in Houston on Thursday if you’re interested. We can also arrange a side trip for you to visit your parents on the way home if you would like.”

“Is this for real?”

“Very much so.”

“And 19 is okay with this?”

“With your approval, 19 Entertainment will no longer have a say in your career.” Sophie handed Allen another folder. As he started to look through the documents, she could see the confusion they created. “The top one is a contract for you with our recommended management team. If you would like to interview other groups, we would be happy to set up meetings for you and make sure you get the best deal possible with whomever you finally choose.

“The remaining documents were drafted by our legal team on your behalf. The simple explanation is that by signing those documents, you are firing 19E with extreme prejudice. We have all the evidence we need to sue them for misconduct, coercion, fraud, and misappropriation of funds.”

“What?”

“They have been cheating you out of your royalties from your Idol recording sessions, falsifying the accounting on your album sales. They’ve not just mishandled your career but someone, or several someones have been actively working to bury you.”

“I – what? No. I don’t…” 

“I know,” Sophie said quietly. “You weren’t crazy Kris. You really were being shut out and cut off. Someone wanted you to fail. And they almost succeeded.”

“Oh my god.”

“It’s okay. We will fix this.”

Allen just stared at her, unblinking, shocked into silence. Sophie gave him a moment to breathe, to just take in everything she had told him before diving back in. 

“Kris, I need to know something…“

Allen looked up, his eyes damp with unshed tears. He seemed lost, nearly broken. She hated that, hated this part of her job. But he needed to know what had been happening behind his back. 

“Kris, what do you want? If you could do it all again, make different choices, or just do something different and new right now, what would it be?”

“In music?”

“Sure, if that’s where your heart and your passion still lives.”

“Um. I don’t know… I guess I just want to make music that touches people, that means something to me, to someone else. All those people voted for us. I feel like I let them all down and now I don’t have anything to give them.”

Allen looked away, drawn toward the picture window and the world outside. Sophie imagined he was thinking of all those people on their phones voting week after week for him. She’d watched the videos over and over again while they worked this case for clues. She’d seen the crowds cheering and watching Allen’s face light up with a shy smile as he tried to take it all in. He was living his dream. 

“You didn’t let anyone down Kris. People let you down.” Sophie took a deep breath. “If we are going to be honest with each other, someone did a lot more than that, didn’t they?”

Allen’s head spun back to face her as though Sophie’d jerked his strings. His eyes were wide and his fingers clutched at the mug in his hands. “What? What are you talking about?”

“That night. Five years ago. I know something happened.”

“Yeah! Adam disappeared! That’s what happened. Adam vanished, and it all fell… it all fell apart.”

“Adam Lambert wasn’t the only one hurt though, was he?”

Kris pushed out of his seat and away from Sophie. The fact that he didn’t think to order her out of his house was a good sign. Sophie pressed her advantage. 

“The night Lambert disappeared someone hurt you as well, didn’t they?”

“No. No. No! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Daniel Gokey was never the front runner for American Idol season 8. He was never expected to win. But he did. Why?” 

“Because he was good. He sang really well that night.”

“No. You sang worse than you ever have in your life.”

“I was upset. Adam…”

“You threw the competition.”

“No!”

“Why?”

“I didn’t!”

“Why throw away everything you had ever dreamed of? Everything you wanted and were so close to getting? With Adam missing, you were the front-runner. You would have won.”

“No.”

“The Idol producers had been setting up the game between you and Lambert since the final five. Gokey was insignificant to the show.”

“No. No.”

“What happened? What happened to make you so scared that you would give up everything?”

“Katy!” Allen cried, hiding his face in his hands. “He... the man… swore he would kill Katy if I didn’t throw the competition in Danny’s favor!” 

Sophie sat back, shocked. 

It made sense. Katy O’Connell was the one thing Allen loved more than music. It shouldn’t surprise Sophie that someone would use that against Allen, but it did. After all the years she had worked with both Counts and helped them in their efforts to free innocent people, it still stunned Sophie that people could be so evil. 

“What man?” Sophie had a suspicion now but she needed Allen to admit it to her and to himself. “Who told you to throw the competition?”

“No.” Allen shook his head, tears streaming down his face. “I can’t. I’ve already said too much.”

“The competition is over.”

“No. He won’t stop. He swore he would kill her, slowly, if I ever said anything to anyone. Even to her.”

Allen looked at Sophie then, all the pain of the last five years visible in his eyes. 

Sophie gasped. “The divorce.”

Allen nodded. 

“She doesn’t know.”

“No. I couldn’t tell her. I can’t tell her.”

“So you let her walk away.” Sophie felt tears on her own cheeks. “To save her life. You let her walk away thinking…what? That you didn’t love her any more?”

Allen nodded again. “I couldn’t talk to her, couldn’t tell her what was wrong. I couldn’t even write music most of the time. Getting the first album out was like … it was hell. Everything just fell apart. She thought it was her, that I didn’t love her or the music or anything any more. After a while she just couldn’t take the silences.”

“Oh, god.”

Allen wiped his face. “I won’t risk her life.” 

“You don’t have to.” Sophie pulled her cell phone out of her bag. “Terrance? Hey. I need a security detail on six people in Arkansas 24/7 effective immediately.”

“Okay,” Terrance replied. “Names?”

Allen started to say something, and Sophie held up her free hand. 

“Katy O’Connell and her parents Peter and Peggy O’Connell, as well as Kim, Neil and Daniel Allen. 

“O’Connell and Allen?”

“Yes.”

“So someone used the wife against Allen?”

“Still working out the specifics, but yeah, looks that way.”

“Okay. Do you need someone on site with you for Allen?”

Sophie looked over at Allen and then around the room. “Yes.” 

“Copy that. I can have Manny there in forty-five minutes, and people on the ground in Conway in say… two hours.”

“Make it one and I’ll see that your vacation with Andre gets upgraded to the honeymoon suite.”

Terrance chuckled. “Right. Rush job, understood.”

“Thank you.”

“Any time.”

Sophie thumbed off her phone and looked back at Allen. He was white under his tan and appeared to be trying to remember how to breathe. 

“You just…”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you are important to my employer.”

“Who is?”

“The Count de Cowell.”

“I don’t know any Counts.” Allen laughed, harsh and awkward. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It will, I promise. Who threatened you, Kris? Who threatened Katy?”

Allen shook his head.

“I need to know. It is very important that I know the name of the person who threatened you both.”

“I ca-.” 

Sophie held up one hand. “I understand that you’re scared. I do. I’ve been where you are. I… I lost my sister to a sex trafficking ring seven years ago.”

Allen’s shocked gasp was loud between them. 

“When my husband and I tried to find her--” Sophie looked down at her lap, her fingers teasing at the fabric of her skirt. She struggled with the emotions that always came up when she dealt with that time in her life. “We got in too deep, too fast. We didn’t know what we were doing. We stepped on the wrong people and made enemies.” She took a breath and made herself keep going. Allen needed to hear her story to know what could happen, no matter what choice he made. 

“They showed us a picture, proof of life they called it, of Marcy, and told us to back off. Said if we didn’t stop, didn’t go home to the States, they would kill her. I refused to leave her there, alone.”

“Where-” Allen’s voice cracked. “Where was she?”

“Madrid. She’d gone on a trip with a friend, traveling around Europe for three months. She’d worked to save up the money on her own and planned everything out, youth hostels and places where they might be able to pick up a bit of work to stretch out their budget.”

Allen nodded. 

“Everything was going fine. We got postcards and email from internet cafés. They were having fun, meeting people, eating things she’d never tried before. Everything you’re supposed to do before college and settling down. Then one day all the messages stopped.

“The last postcard we had from her said that they were going to join a new friend at a villa on the coast for a party and that she would write us with all the details when the hangover wore off.”

“And that was all?”

Sophie nodded. “That was all. It took us almost a year to get close to the group that had her.”

“And then?”

“When I refused to leave Spain, they offered us a deal. Do one job for them, and we could have Marcy back for good.”

“Really?”

Allen’s voice was so full of hope Sophie almost didn’t want to tell him the rest. She looked up at him. His eyes were wide and bright, and he clearly wanted her to tell him that it was possible to negotiate with evil and come out with your soul untarnished. She knew better. 

“No,” Sophie said softly. “We took the deal and did the job.”

“What was-“

Sophie put her hand up. “Nothing I’m proud of. And it didn’t help. When it was all over, they gave us Marcy’s body. The coroner estimated that she’d been dead at least a month. They’d lied to us the whole time. Used our grief to get what they wanted.”

“Oh god.”

Sophie nodded. She wiped her eyes and pulled herself back together. 

“You need to understand these people, Kris.” She took one of his hands in hers. “They don’t care about us. Or the people we love. All they care about is … power and money and their little world. They won’t keep their promises no matter how many hoops you jump through or how many times you beg. Katy will never be safe as long as that man is free.”

Allen stared at Sophie for a moment and then another, emotions flashing across his face, then he dropped his head and gripped her fingers. 

“It was Danny. Danny Gokey,” he whispered. Sophie watched as Allen’s whole body shook, fighting against years of denial before he let out a sound of pain and grief and loss all rolled into one. “Danny threatened to kill Katy if I didn’t help him win the show.” 

 

March 2012  
de Cowell Manor   
Cambo, Northumberland, England

“Don’t don’t don’t please don’t!!” Lambert begged his voice harsh, guttural from long-term abuse. 

Sophie felt the tension in the room escalate as the medical team tried to calm Lambert. He thrashed on the bed, kicking out with both legs and pulling against the IV hard enough to dislodge the tubes. 

“Shhh, it’s okay,” the nurse said, reaching for his bleeding arm.

“No!!” 

“Just relax, son,” Doctor Mannheim said. “This won’t hurt. I promise.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” Lambert screamed, one long continuous sound of pain and terror.

“Enough,” Simon de Cowell said from his position at the far side of the room. “Doctor, that is enough.”

Doctor Mannheim turned to look at the Count. “My Lord, his wounds need to be treated.”

“They will be, but not at the moment. Not like this.”

“But my Lord-“

“That will be all, doctor.”

Mannheim shook his head then nodded at his nurse. They both pulled their hands away from Lambert, stood up and with a nod to the Count, left the room. 

de Cowell sighed and walked slowly toward Lambert’s bed. Lambert was curled in a tight ball up near the headboard, his arms clutching his legs to his chest, rocking back and forth. 

“Oh son,” de Cowell said. “What shall I do with you?”

Lambert looked up at de Cowell through spiky black bangs, though he didn’t stop rocking. 

“I’d like to sit down near you, nothing more. Is that all right?”

Lambert didn’t respond in anyway, his kohl-smeared eyes stayed focused on the Count. After a moment, de Cowell sat on the edge of the bed. 

“I know all of this must seem like another kind of torture after what you have been through,” de Cowell said softly, “but Doctor Mannheim is just trying to help. You have cuts along your arm that need tending right now, and eventually we have to allow someone to give you a full exam, x-rays and all, to determine how much damage the bastards did to you.”

Lambert’s head popped up over his arms, his eyes wide. Sophie wondered if it was the word ‘bastards’ that had caught Lambert’s attention, it certainly had caught hers. In the two years she had been working for Lord Simon de Cowell, she had never heard him raise his voice, let alone utter a single curse word. He simply didn’t do such things. 

Finding Lambert the way they had, trapped the way he had been, was like nothing any of them had seen before. They had all come to accept that human beings were capable of selling other human beings and hurting them in horrible ways, but to purposely use a man’s fame and talent against him as a way to break him was beyond cruel. 

“I know you have been hurt,” de Cowell continued. “And I know how confused you must be right now, but I hope you will let me help you. Please, Adam?”

Lambert jerked away from de Cowell, his eyes nearly white with fear. He clawed his way up the headboard, kicking at the blankets, pushing against the wires and tubes that tumbled around him. 

“It’s okay. I’m sorry. Adam… Adam, it’s okay…”

“NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!!” 

Lambert’s scream caught both Sophie and de Cowell by surprise. It was worse than any sound he had made so far, like a broken animal, trapped and fighting for its life, knowing it was dying and desperate to escape. Lambert pushed off the bed, fell to the floor and then scrambled toward the door.

“Sophie!” de Cowell shouted as Lambert came toward her. 

Sophie knew de Cowell meant for her to step aside, let Terrance and Isaac, who had burst in at Lambert’s cry, deal with the man, but something about his reaction made her pause. 

“It was the name,” she said, kneeling in front of Lambert, hands outstretched as though to soothe a wild animal. “Wasn’t it?”

Lambert slid to a stop in front of Sophie and looked at her, trembling. 

“What Simon called you, that name, Ad-“ Lambert flinched and looked ready to run again at the sound. Sophie quickly changed tacks. “Your name, your old name, that’s what … what hurt you, isn’t it?”

Lambert looked at Simon and then back to Sophie. His face was still a mask of discomfort and fear but now there was thought, real human thought, there as well. Lambert looked around the room, at Terrance and Isaac then back at Sophie. He stared at her for several breaths. 

Sophie waited, letting him choose, letting him decide if he could trust them. 

At last Lambert nodded. 

By the door, Sophie heard someone, she guessed Isaac, let out a breath. 

“Ok. We won’t call you by that name.”

Lambert nodded again. 

“We need to call you something though. I can’t imagine you would like being called ‘boy’ or ‘son’ all the time.” Sophie smiled at Lambert. 

He didn’t return her smile, just kept looking at her, but the fear was draining from his eyes. 

“Do you have a name you’d like me, us, to use instead?”

Lambert looked around the room then back at Sophie, then down at the floor and shrugged. 

“Oh. Um… okay.” Sophie looked over at de Cowell hoping he might have a suggestion. He nodded at her. 

“You’re doing fine.”

Sophie took a deep breath and thought through what she knew of Lambert, his family history, the stories she’s been able to pull off the internet about his friends and life before he’d disappeared. There were plenty of names in that file, but she couldn’t see him wanting to be called by any of them; she’d feel weird using a friend’s name if she were in his place. But there was his middle name, he’d never used that much in any of his public work that she’d seen, maybe that would be free enough of associations to fit.

“What about – Mitchel?”

Lambert’s eyes went wide for a moment. Then his gaze seemed to turn inward, as though he were tasting the name, seeing how it felt. A moment later, he looked back at Sophie and nodded. 

“Mitchel,” he croaked. 

“Okay.” Sophie smiled. “Um… still Lambert though, right?”

Lambert flinched and shook his head hard enough to hurt. “NoNoNO!”

“Okay! Its okay,” Sophie said, reaching out a hand to stroke across his clenched fingers. “We won’t use that then.”

Mitchel shuddered and then nodded. 

“Would it be okay if we looked at your arm where it’s bleeding? Maybe get it cleaned up and bandaged?”

Mitchel looked at Sophie and nodded. “You,” he said.

“You want me to do it?”

Mitchel nodded again. 

“Okay, I can do that. Can I come a little closer?”

This time, Mitchel’s nod was a quick snap of his head up and down, tension back in full force. 

Sophie toed off her heels and scooted forward until she was at Mitchel’s side. 

“Isaac,” she said quietly, never taking her eyes off of Mitchel, “would you bring me some wash rags and a basin of water, please?”

“Sure thing.”

“Mitchel, will you stretch your arm out for me, please?”

Mitchel looked down at his bleeding arm and tilted his head. His brow scrunched, and he looked like a kid trying to understand how the cuts on his arm had magically appeared. He straightened his arm and held it out toward Sophie. 

“Thank you.” Sophie took the injured arm in her hands as gently as she could but Mitchel made no sound, didn’t even flinch as her fingers brushed over one of the seeping cuts. “I’m sorry,” she said. 

“Doesn’t hurt,” he said with a shrug. 

Sophie looked up at Mitchel’s face. There was something there, a look she’d seen in other survivor’s eyes, one that told of countless nightmares and lifetimes of pain. The little bit she was causing him now was really nothing in the scheme of what he must have endured over the last two years. She also knew that the last thing he would want was her pity. There would be enough people around him in the days to come-- his friends and family if he chose to see them again, well meaning strangers even-- who would not know how to react to him with anything other than horror and pity. Sophie knew better. She knew from watching the others that there was nothing to pity in Ad- Mitchel. He was as strong as they came. 

“Okay,” was all she said before turning back to her investigations. 

There were cut marks all up and down Mitchel’s right arm, some long and ragged, some short and sharp, and from the amount of blood oozing from them, several of those went deep into the muscle. The cuts crisscrossed the length and breadth of his arm, and each one had the look of deliberation and intention to it. These were made to hurt and to scar. There was dirt, and some other substances Sophie was certain she never ever wanted to know the origin of, embedded in some of the cuts and a few of the ones near his shoulder had begun to scab over and around the remnants of his torn shirt. 

Sophie took her time washing the dirt and blood away, revealing the clean skin and painful cuts with each swipe of cloth, changing clean water to murky brown. With a nod to Isaac, the basin vanished and was returned with clean water and a fresh cloth. 

Sophie worked her way up and around Mitchel’s arm, cleaning everywhere she could and loosening as much of the clotted shirt as possible. Some of it was just too stubborn. 

“Mitchel…” Sophie tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Mitchel?”

Mitchel looked up from his arm and blinked. The adrenaline was clearly starting to fade from his system leaving him drained and exhausted. 

“I need to get your shirt out of these cuts. It’s probably going to hurt, but I’ll do my best to make it quick, okay?”

Mitchel tried to answer her and ended up doubled over coughing. 

“Easy does it,” Sophie said fighting the urge to hold him and rub his back while he struggled to breathe. “That’s it, nice slow, deep breaths.” 

Mitchel’s coughing eased off and he clasped Sophie’s hand, squeezing it once before letting his fingers go lax. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

“You’re welcome. Ready to get rid of that shirt?”

“Yeah,” he croaked. 

“Okay.” 

With Mitchel’s help, Sophie tugged the shirt up over his head and around to the shoulder of his injured arm. Once all the fabric was free from his body, she teased at the edge of the first stuck piece, took a deep breath and pulled. Mitchel twitched under her fingers but remained silent. She looked up at his face. His eyes were damp and his jaw tight but he nodded toward his arm. 

“More,” he said. “The rest. Please.”

Sophie studied Mitchel’s face for a moment longer then went back to work. Four more strips of cloth later and all the cuts were clean of debris. Mitchel sighed with her as she dropped the shirt and the bloody washcloth and sat back. 

“I think,” Sophie said, turning to look at de Cowell. He was sitting on the bed, his fingers white at the knuckles where they were gripping the covers on either side of his knees. “I think that some of these cuts are going to need more than a bandage.”

“Terrance, please ask Doctor Mannheim to come ba-“

“Nonono….”Mitchel started to shake, tossing his head back and forth. He tugged his arm out of Sophie’s grasp and pulled it close to his chest. 

“I’m sorry, Mitchel. Some of these cuts, they’re just too deep. They won’t heal on their own. I really think-“

“Nonono please… you… please….” Mitchel looked at Sophie with desperate eyes. 

“Shhh… okay. Um, okay!” Sophie raised a placating hand out toward Mitchel and tried to remember everything she could about basic first aid and trauma victims. “Would it be all right if Doctor Mannheim came in and looked at your arm – With me here,” she added quickly. 

Mitchel kept shaking his head and moaning. 

“I won’t go anywhere, I promise.”

Mitchel’s moans quieted, and he stopped shaking his head, though shivers still rippled across his torso. 

“He’ll just look. He’ll determine what needs to be done, nothing else, okay?

Mitchel closed his eyes and then snapped them open on a sob. 

“It’ll be okay, I promise. I’ll be right here the whole time.”

Finally Mitchel nodded. 

“Terrance,” de Cowell said as Sophie adjusted her position so she was as close as she thought she could get to Mitchel without scaring him again. “Please explain the situation to Doctor Mannheim. Make certain that he understands that he can only view Mitchel from a distance that is comfortable for Mitchel, that he cannot touch Mitchel at all, and can only advise me on what is needed to ensure the successful healing of these wounds. If he agrees to those terms, then please escort him back inside.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

There was a soft snick and whoosh as the heavy door opened and then closed behind Terrance. 

“Sophie, do you think you can suture the wounds if that proves to be what is needed?”

“I…” Sophie looked at Mitchel’s frightened face. There really wasn’t any other option. She forced a smile and a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders. “Just like darning socks right?”

“That’s my girl,” de Cowell said. 

“When have you ever darned socks?” Isaac whispered from behind her.

“Shut up, you!” 

A snort from her other side drew Sophie’s eyes back to Mitchel. He had the smallest hint of a smile on his face. It was beautiful to see. 

“You too,” she added with a wink. “Bad enough from my husband and Terrance! All I need is a new brother giving me a hard time about my sewing skills.”

“You know they only do it because they adore you, Sophie,” de Cowell said with a grin.

Mitchel’s eyes snapped toward the door as it opened. 

“Doctor, thank you for joining us,” de Cowell said with a wave of his hand. 

“Of course.” 

Mannheim knelt down a foot or so away from Mitchel with his hands folded firmly on his knee. 

“Hello, Mitchel, I’m sorry about earlier. With your permission I would like to view your arm and see what I can offer by way of advice for healing its wounds. Would that be acceptable?”

Mitchel stared at Mannheim then flicked a glance up at de Cowell. 

“It’s your choice, Mitchel, although I strongly recommend you accept his assistance. Those cuts look nasty.” 

Mitchel glanced down at his arm and then over to Sophie. She smiled and reached out a hand to him, when he didn’t pull away she rested it lightly on his shoulder. 

“Doctor Mannheim is very good. He can help us help you get better. Will you let him look?”

Mitchel stared at Sophie for a moment longer then turned back to Mannheim. “Okay,” he said, the word cracking half way through. He cleared his throat. “Okay,” he tried again. “Please…”

Mitchel held his arm out to Mannheim. 

“Thank you,” Mannheim said. He leaned forward, his hands remaining on his knee as his eyes tracked up Mitchel’s arm from cut to cut. “Could you turn your arm please, Mitchel? I need to see the underside.”

Mitchel shifted his arm over for Mannheim and took a deep breath. Sophie smiled at him and squeezed his shoulder.

“Thank you. Mrs. Carpenter-“ Mannheim looked up at Sophie, “--you will need to suture the three uppermost cuts and this cut here –“ Mannheim moved one hand toward Mitchel and Mitchel flinched. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you. I won’t touch your arm, but I do need to point out the affected wound. Is that acceptable?”

Mannheim waited, hand poised in mid-air for Mitchel’s nod and then the slow return of Mitchel’s arm. “The deepest of the cuts are on the top.” Mitchel turned his arm over. “Thank you, Mitchel. This cut here,” Mannheim pointed at one of the deep wounds Sophie had cleaned earlier, which was once again seeping blood at the edges, “will need to be sewn closed as well as those three at the top.” Mannheim pointed to the three deep cuts near Mitchel’s shoulder that had been crusted over with portions of his shirt. 

“I can talk you through the procedure if you like.”

“Please,” Sophie said. 

Mannheim pulled his hand back to his knee and looked up at Mitchel. “The suturing will be uncomfortable. Many people find it painful. If you would like I can have Sophie give you an injection that will numb your arm before she starts. 

“No pain?” Mitchel asked.

“No pain with the shot. The cuts will be sore once the medication wears off and as they heal, but with the anesthetic, you won’t feel pain while Sophie sews them closed.”

“No pain,” Mitchel said again this time with a look of wonder on his face. “Yes. Please.” 

“Okay,” Mannheim said. “No pain.” 

Sophie knew she would remember the look of hope on Mitchel’s face for the rest of her life.


	6. Part Two: Gather the Prey

>   
>  BBC News World Beat March 22, 2012

>   
> Amsterdam cracks a massive male sex trafficking ring linked to cities across Europe

>   
> Police in Amsterdam busted a massive sex trafficking ring this week and were surprised at what they found: 64 men and 13 boys trafficked into commercial sex. In what is becoming an alarming trend among sex trafficking rings, increasing numbers of men and boys like those found this week are being raped and forced to engage in sex acts against their will. 

>   
> Police in Amsterdam have not released the names of any of the men or boys rescued from the traffickers at this time. Many are severely malnourished and in need of medical care. One man, believed to be an American approx. 30 years of age with black hair, was killed during the operation. 

>   
> Count Simon de Cowell of Phoenix Fire Industries applauded Amsterdam for its willingness to work with Interpol and other organizations to break such sex trafficking rings. de Cowell himself is a well-known voice against sex trafficking and has lobbied the British government to enact stronger laws to protect men and transgendered people as well as women and children. 

Chapter Six  
Mitchel de Cowell, the Count de Cowell  
Saturday, May 17th 2014

 

The body that housed Mitchel de Cowell sat shivering on the floor of the shower of his LA bathroom. His eyes were focused on the past.

Trapped.

The water beating down on his skin had lost its heat long enough ago to chill the marble tile around him. He felt only the cold of the past.

Trapped.

de Cowell flinched at the memory of a hand coming toward him. Striking his jaw. Pain blossomed where the fist had struck. _In the past_ , a part of his mind whispered, desperate to get out of the trap. But the blow hurt so much.

_In the past_.

_Still!_ Another part of him screamed. _It still hurts. It will always hurt._

_No. Not always. Not after tonight._

_Yes!_ The voice trapped in the past twisted and burned, lost in waves of pain and despair.

_No. Trust me,_ the other voice, the stronger voice, said. _After tonight it will all be over._

_Promise?_ the past whispered.

_I promise. After tonight we can both sleep._

_Sleep? I miss sleep._

_Sleep,_ the stronger voice whispered.

_Okay._

de Cowell blinked and coughed, a massive shiver rippling along his spine. “Shit.”

He scrambled for the shower knob, trying to keep as much of his body out of the ice cold spray as possible and sighed when the water shut off at last. He sank back onto the tiles and pushed his wet hair out of his face. It was cold when the long strands hit his back but he could see again; that was a start.

de Cowell was used to waking up in places and not knowing how he’d gotten there. Or rather knowing how he’d gotten there to begin with but not knowing what had happened to change the situation after he’d arrived. As far as he’d been able to work out it only happened when he was alone and nearly always when he was around water. That was why he always went swimming with one of his bodyguards. They thought he was humoring them and their almost pathological need to protect him from even the smallest paper cut. He didn’t want to explain that he was trying not to purposefully drown himself in his own damn pool.

Memory pricked at the back of his thoughts. Pain and fear and a name he refused to speak again. He shook his head and stood up. He had work to do to get ready for the gala and standing around hunting for the root of his insanity was not going to get any of it done.

de Cowell had a routine. Shower. Dry off. Inspect the damage. Cover what he could and then move on. He’d stopped hoping that scars would vanish. He knew they were permanent, just like the memories. Some days the inspection helped to put the past back into its place. Other days, like today, he needed to see what had been done. He was using the physical reminders to fortify himself for the battle ahead. Because he wasn’t fool enough to think that his enemies would go down without a fight. So here in front of the mirror, with all the lies stripped away, he’d build his armor.

Giving his hair one last scrub with the towel, de Cowell tossed the thick white cotton aside and stepped in front of the full-length mirror. He took his time assessing the body reflected back at him. It was tall and slender. The copper red hair was still dark from the water but already starting to shine in places under the room’s heat lamp. The eyes were bright blue most days and clear, though what anyone saw in them once his green contacts were in he couldn’t tell. He did his best not to look too deeply. He knew their secrets. The nose was mostly straight except for one bump where it had been broken and healed badly. The jaw was firm and many would say strong. There were freckles across nearly every inch of his skin.

He understood that other people found the shape attractive. All he could see were the scars.

There were thirteen shiny pink horizontal lines on his right arm: seven running across his upper arm, five across the front of his lower arm and four more, he turned his arm, watching the light glint off the scar tissue, on the back near the elbow joint.

Twenty-seven cigarette burns: twelve on his right thigh, nine on his left, one on his wrist – in the center of the eye of Horus tattoo. He didn’t need to turn around and look over his shoulder to know where the last five had been placed. He remembered. He turned anyway, twisting around to look in the mirror and inspect the nearly perfect circles on his left butt cheek.

de Cowell stayed twisted around, his eyes tracing up along his spine to the small jagged lines under his rib cage on the left side, then over and across to the ripple of healed skin on his right shoulder. He could almost remember what had caused both of those. There was fire and pain but nothing else clear in his memories. He didn’t think they had meant for him to get hurt so badly that time. But since it had kept him in line for several months, it must have worked in their favor.

Turning back around to face front, de Cowell finally, really, looked at his own face. He knew it should look familiar, but it didn’t. Every time he looked in a mirror, he saw a stranger. It felt better that way. He knew that he and L- the other- shared the same face, the same eyes and hair, though the color and length were different. What de Cowell was and who, what L- Lambert was, had been, were nothing like the same person.

The last step was to look at his groin and his cock. It hung limp and useless between his legs. Quiet for a change, not hard and needy, pulsing with the memory of all the drugs that had lived inside him during those years. He didn’t know what to make of his cock any more. It was just there. A reminder of his status as a _thing_ to be used.

Former status. He wasn’t a slave any more.

Rage surged up liquid hot and sudden. “NO!”

He hurled his waiting carafe of coffee at the mirror.

“Never again!” he said to the shattered glass, his voice dark and dangerous. “Never. Again.”

Someone rattled the handle on the bathroom door. “My Lord?”

de Cowell ignored them, his eyes caught by the fragmentation of his image in the pieces of the mirror still held in the frame. His fractured shape was repeated over and over again in a dozen different ways, some large, some small. And in none of the fragments could he see all of his form.

It caught him, pulled him in. It was almost right. It almost made sense.

He splayed one hand out against the glass – warm under his cold skin – fingers stretched to touch as many shards as possible.

His hand slipped, and an edge sliced across his skin. Blood pooled along the side and then dripped when he moved his finger just a little bit. The contrast was fascinating.

“My Lord? Are you okay?” The doorknob rattled again. “My Lord?”

He did it again, hardly feeling the sharp glass cut into his skin.

He put his other hand up to the glass, curling his fingers around the edges to see the red seep through and color his reflection. Maybe if he colored it enough the images in his head and the images in the mirror would match.

“Boss?” a new voice this time. de Cowell almost recognized it through the haze of red and light and memories. “Boss, if you don’t answer me I’ll have to break down this door and make sure you’re okay. You know if I don’t, Terrance and Lee are going to have my head.”

de Cowell pulled away from the broken mirror with a start, scraping his hands along the sharp edges. He winced at the pain, feeling it this time.

“I’m fine,” he called out.

“What’s going on, boss?” de Cowell put a name to the voice. It was Xander, his bodyguard and babysitter for the day.

“Nothing.” He grabbed a towel, brushed at the blood on his hands then rinsed them under the faucet. “I’m fine.”

“What was the crash?”

“Broke the carafe. Can you have Cook send up some more coffee?” he asked. “Please?”

“You sure you’re all right?” Xander called through the door.

“I’m fine. Let the make-up artist and the others know I’ll be out in a few minutes. And get me that coffee.”

“Okay. Sure thing, boss.”

The doorknob rattled one last time and then there was silence. de Cowell closed his eyes with a sigh and let his head drop back. He pushed the clawing darkness back into its cage breath by breath. Forced away the desire to let it all break out and consume him. Another couple of days and he could let this thing inside him loose to devour him, but not now. Not when his vengeance was so close at hand. He needed to be calm to complete his plans.

de Cowell opened his eyes and looked at the mirror again. Blood streaked from broken piece to broken piece. “Damn,” he said softly.

At least it was only a mirror and a few cuts on his hand this time.

He wiped his hands on the towel again. Most of the cuts were nearly sealed. With a practiced hand he sprayed them with antiseptic and then a layer of Nu-skin. They’d feel a little strange for a while, but it would look better than him wandering around with a half dozen Band-Aids on his fingers.

His fingers dealt with, he squeezed a drop of liquid latex onto his wrist and spread the pigment-matched concealer over the ruined tattoo. Next he got out his contacts, gave them a quick rinse with saline and slipped them into place, the false green irises hiding the past as well as the blue he’d been born with.

The core pieces of his facade complete, he slipped into his underwear, a soft t-shirt and silk lounge pants.

He didn’t bother looking in the mirror again. He knew what he looked like now. He could feel his mask settle into place. He was the Count de Cowell, cool and reserved. He was calm and collected, the picture of respected nobility, even if he had gained his title by adoption and kept his place through the sufferance of the so-called Peers. His title was real and his power even more so. And tonight he was going to use every ounce of that power to extract his revenge once and for all.

 

An hour later, de Cowell was clinging to his sanity and his calm by the skin of his teeth.

He was in the sitting room connected to his bedroom, surrounded by people. Too many people, all of whom wanted his attention or to do something to him or for him. And if they didn’t all leave him alone very soon, he was going to find a way to have every single one of them decapitated.

“Enough!” he shouted. He hated raising his voice. It hurt his throat for one thing and made him sound like a boorish oaf for another. Taking a deep breath, he spoke to the now utterly quiet room. “Xander?”

“Yes, boss?” Xander, who’d been hovering in ever-closer circles, stepped forward.

“Can you…” de Cowell stopped suddenly at a loss for what he wanted. “No, never mind. Sutan,” he turned to the make up artist that Sophie had found for him.

“My Lord?”

“Do we really need this many people in here helping right now?”

Sutan started to reply and then stopped, looked at de Cowell and then shook his head. “No.”

“Thank you.”

Sutan turned to his crew and waved them out of the room. de Cowell breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed behind the last person. There was a time, when he’d been someone else, when he’d loved being the center of attention, now it just set his nerves on edge and kept him looking for the exits.

“Thank you,” he said again as the feeling of being watched and judged faded to a manageable level. “Xander, would you ask Cook for a pot of tea, please?”

“Sure thing, boss.” Xander nodded and slipped out of the room.

“Would you…?”

de Cowell turned to Sutan with a raised eyebrow.

“I mean… I could leave you alone for a bit if you need?”

de Cowell looked at the man. Without the throng of people around them Sutan was easier to read. He had been the calm in the center of the storm earlier. Now he was still calm but there was a sense of compassion, not pity, but genuine concern for another human being, radiating from him. de Cowell wondered how much Sophie had told Sutan. He knew she would never disclose more than necessary but sometimes her definition of necessary and de Cowell’s were farther apart than de Cowell liked.

“No,” de Cowell said with a shake of his head. If Sophie had trusted this man, then de Cowell would try to do the same. Her instincts had been good so far. “You don’t need to leave. There were just a few too many people.”

“Ah. I can understand that. I’m used to them, but-” He shrugged and smiled, his black hair flopping from one side of his head to the other as he moved. “They can be a bit much.”

de Cowell smiled in return. “They mean well.”

“Oh yeah!” Sutan laughed. “Like a pack of Queens at a ten cent sale mean well!”

de Cowell burst out laughing. Sutan laughed along with him, and it felt good, really good to laugh with such abandon. He reached for a chair to fall into, but Sutan stopped him before he sat down.

“Careful. No spoiling all my hard work with one bad landing.” Sutan swept the mass of fabric that was trailing behind de Cowell off to one side. “There. All safe.”

de Cowell settled into the chair with exaggerated care. “Am I going to be able to sit down at all tonight?”

“Not if you want to stay looking fabulous all night.”

de Cowell shook his head. “Why did I agree to this outfit?”

“No idea,” Sutan said with a smirk. “But you look amazing, and we’re not done yet.”

de Cowell groaned. The gala had not been his idea. Well, the gala had. The notion of making it a costumed and masked ball had been Gokey’s. Or his wife’s, de Cowell had never been very clear about that. de Cowell didn’t do costumes. He didn’t actually do parties. He attended functions because he had to, not out of some delight at being a socialite.

And, de Cowell fought back a shiver, anything involving make-up reminded him too much of the past.

There had actually been four previous versions of the costume he was now wearing. Each had been progressively tamer than the last as he had fought with his designers to find a balance between their need to show off the Count as the Phoenix and his need to stay sane. The final version was something of a cross between an eighteenth century frock coat and a floor-length trench coat, but made of gold and copper silk. It was far more extravagant than he was comfortable with but much less grand than the designers had wanted. There were no feathers or rhinestones and absolutely no metal studs.

“I’m dressed. What else could I possibly need?” de Cowell asked just as Xander entered with a tray of tea and what looked like sandwiches. de Cowell’s cook was overly fond of feeding him.

Sutan raised an eyebrow, and suddenly de Cowell felt like an errant schoolboy. “You have the coat on, but your hair and make-up still need to be done.”

“I’m not wearing make-up.”

“You need some, or your eyes will vanish behind the mask.” Sutan held his ground, but something in his tone made de Cowell think that Sophie had warned him that de Cowell would fight him on the make-up and why.

“You’re not going into that ballroom without at least a little bit of make-up.”

“I’m not--“

“This is what I do. Trust me on this. I know… I know you don’t like wearing make-up, your assistant made that clear, but this is what I am good at. If you want to pull off whatever grand plan you have going on for tonight, you need the complete look. And that means highlighting your eyes at least, a little glossy moisturizer for your lips and foundation to cover the freckles, ‘cause somehow I doubt you want that look tonight.”

de Cowell sighed and shook his head. He would happily scrape his freckles off permanently if he could. He clenched his fists and hit the armrests on his chair but nodded.

“Fine. Fine, just…” he hesitated, then said, “just do whatever it is you do.”

“Okay,” Sutan said. He nodded to the tray of tea and sandwiches. “Have some tea and I’ll get set up.”

 

The next hour of being fussed over went much better than de Cowell had feared it would. He even managed to relax enough to not twitch every time Sutan touched his face with a make-up brush. It was a strange feeling to be almost comfortable under such conditions again. And the results when Sutan told him he could look in the mirror were worth every clenched hand and gut-roiling moment.

In the mirror, instead of a man he didn’t recognize, there was now the living embodiment of a phoenix. Sutan had woven dark red, bronze, and gold ribbons into de Cowell’s copper hair to form a mantle of living fire around his face. He’d done de Cowell’s eyes in green and gold which set them off like mage lightning.

The ribbons and de Cowell’s own hair came down his back to meet with the gold and copper silk of the coat which was fitted on top and had yards of loose fabric trailing out behind him like a tail. Along the collar, on the lapels in front, and at the cuffs there hints of embroidered flames that licked their way down to his feet.

It was impressive and more than a little overwhelming.

“One last piece,” Sutan said, offering him the mask that would sit over his eyes. By comparison, the mask was simple. Just a small piece of gold silk with embroidered flames around the eyes and at the edges leading into his hair. But once he held it up to his face it completed the look, giving the impression that de Cowell just had stepped out of a book on mythic creatures.

“Perfect,” Sutan sighed.

“Amazing, boss,” Xander said from his place near the door. “Really amazing.”

de Cowell nodded at Sutan and Xander in the mirror. The reflection wasn’t him. It was shocking but it was exactly what he wanted: a firebird that would burn away everything and everyone that tried to get in his way.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven   
Mitchel de Cowell, the Count de Cowell  
The Celestial Gala, Saturday, May 17th 2014

 

Lee and Sophie had things well in hand when de Cowell arrived at Boulevard3’s private entrance on the Sunset Strip. 

His driver parked the Rolls in the club’s lot as de Cowell made his way up the back stairs to the Elite Balcony Suite that was his for the evening. Technically the entire club was his for the evening, as they had rented the whole facility, but this area, a recessed balcony overlooking the ballroom, had been set aside as his haven for the night. His staff and friends were convinced he was going to need the space. He’d decided it was easier to humor them than continue to argue the matter. 

Looking out over the nearly empty ballroom, de Cowell took a moment to appreciate all the work Sophie had put into making it perfect. With sheer black fabric sweeping down along the columns from floor to ceiling, and covering the tables and chairs, along with the fairy lights and crystal sparkling everywhere, it looked like they were deep in space. And when the elaborately set tables were cleared away after dinner, the guests would be able to look up into a ceiling filled with stars and feel like they were somewhere far from home, far from the ordinariness of their everyday lives. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, Sophie stepped into the balcony suite with Lee just behind her. They each carried electronic tablets and wore discreet headsets tucked into one ear and curving along their jaw. 

“Hey,” Sophie said smiling at him despite the slightly frazzled look in her eyes. “Wow. I’d seen the sketches but… You look amazing! The guys at Skin Graft really outdid themselves.”

de Cowell looked down at the flowing layers of silk, ran his hand along the fabric of his cuff and nodded. 

“Do you have your mask?”

de Cowell smiled and pulled his mask out of his pocket. “Yes, Mother.”

Sophie grinned and dipped her head in acknowledgement. 

“You look lovely,” de Cowell said admiringly as she turned slowly showing off her brilliant red silk sheath dress. It was simple but elegant and accentuated her curves wonderfully. For once, her dark hair was loose around her shoulders and falling in stylized waves down her back. 

Sophie completed her spin and dipped into a quick curtsey. “Thank you. And yes, I have my mask. I’ll put it on when we go downstairs.” She waved her mask; it was an exact replica of de Cowell’s, as was Lee’s. The two of them had insisted. Sophie said it would enhance de Cowell’s own costume. Lee just wanted it made clear that they worked for de Cowell. 

“Good,” de Cowell said and then turned to Lee. “Very nice.”

Lee dipped his head with a reluctant smile. 

“It’s a good color on you.”

Lee looked down at his copper suit then back up at de Cowell with a soft smile. It had been a long time since Lee had indulged his love of color and costumes. “Thank you.”

de Cowell took a deep breath and turned to look out over the ballroom again. 

“It looks wonderful. You and your team did an outstanding job, Sophie, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m so glad you like it.”

“Right,” he said, gripping the balcony railing. “It’s time.”

~*~

The joy of being the boss and on “foreign soil” was that de Cowell could dictate the terms of his entrance. As much as he appreciated the benefits of his position, there were times when the pomp and circumstance made his skin crawl. Tonight he’d done away with the usual fanfare and frills that “should” have marked his entrance to his own party. Instead he stepped down onto the main floor of the ballroom with a minimum of fuss. The serving staff all turned to look, several of them doing double and triple takes before resuming their masks of calculated indifference. 

At a word from Sophie, security opened the doors to the guests who had been contained in the club’s front garden and outdoor bar. The throng made their way inside in a burst of color and sound. 

Nearly everyone had followed the dress code and was wearing a mask, and nearly all of those even coordinated with the guests’ costumes. Here and there de Cowell could see the plain black masks that Sophie had given to the staff who were handling reception. 

Hidden behind his own mask as he watched the approaching the crowd, de Cowell felt safer than he had in years. It was an illusion he knew, but still it gave him strength to accept the looks and whispers that flowed toward him. They saw the costume, the phoenix, not the broken scaffolding beneath it. 

Taking up a position near the ballroom’s elaborately decorated bar, de Cowell stood and watched the crowd swirl around the dinner tables, taking in the decorations, the lighting and soft music. There was a rhythm to their movements, a well-choreographed dance. People would sweep into the room and spread out, stopping here and there to laugh with each other, admire one another’s costumes, then move on, repeating the steps from cluster to cluster, steadily moving deeper into the room. Closer to the heart of the event, to de Cowell himself. 

Sophie stood beside and just behind de Cowell on his left, Lee on his right, each one feeding him information about the guests as they got up the courage to approach him. 

“Jason Flom,” Sophie whispered as a man with short dark hair, large nose and squared off jaw stepped away from a group of guests and approached. 

de Cowell nodded. Even hidden behind the elaborate tiger mask the man was wearing, de Cowell would recognize the CEO of Capitol Music Group. There was just something about the way Flom carried himself that always stood out. He wasn’t outwardly aggressive but there was always a sense with Flom that you were dealing with barely contained energy. 

“Jason,” de Cowell said, hand outstretched. “Good to see you.”

“Mitchel,” Flom replied, taking de Cowell’s hand in his own and squeezing just a bit too tight. de Cowell held on, squeezed back even tighter, then let go. “Quite the party you’ve created.”

“Thank you, but I can’t take any of the credit. That is due entirely to my tireless assistants, Sophie,” de Cowell nodded to his left and then his right, “and Lee.”

Flom nodded at both, smiling widely at Sophie. “Isn’t that always the way? I’m not sure I could find my own car some days without Madison’s help.”

de Cowell laughed because it was expected. “I understand completely. How is Elise? The kids?”

“Elise is well. She sends her love and apologies. The timing unfortunately was difficult with the kids at school. One of us needed to stay with them.”

de Cowell inclined his head. The Floms had a nanny and housekeeper, de Cowell knew, so something else had kept Elise Flom in London, or away from California. “Of course. Please let her know she was missed.” 

“I will.” Flom shook de Cowell’s hand once more and stepped away, formalities completed. 

“Remind me to send Elise flowers,” de Cowell said, leaning toward Sophie. His eyes scanned the room as he spoke, watching the crowd in their dance. There were more people now, more colors, and the sound of their voices was rising. “And something for the kids.”

Sophie nodded and jotted a note on her tablet. 

“David Bomford,” Lee whispered as a man and woman in coordinated costumes stepped forward to greet de Cowell. “Acting Director of the Getty Museum and his fiancé Deborah Oyenusi.” 

“Hmmm, still haven’t found a permanent person, have they?” 

Lee shook his head and stepped back just as two works of art stepped up. Bomford and Oyenusi were dressed in what could only be reproductions of one of the paintings in the Getty’s collection. de Cowell could almost remember the painting, some formal portrait of an eighteenth century family, he thought. 

“David,” de Cowell extended his hand first to Bomford and then to Oyenusi. “Deborah, thank you so much for joining us.”

“It’s a pleasure, Count,” Bomford replied, his arm around Oyenusi’s waist. 

“Mitchel, please,” de Cowell said with a wave of his hand. His eye caught movement beyond Bomford’s shoulder, two men and three women clustered together. They looked familiar even with their costumes and masks. “I have to say, your costumes are gorgeous. What painting are they from?”

Oyenusi laughed, sweet and delighted. “I told you he would understand!” She tapped Bomford on the arm. 

“You’re right,” Bomford agreed with a smile. 

Oyenusi harrumphed then turned back to de Cowell. “Johann Zoffany’s portrait of the Fourteenth Lord Willoughby de Broke and his Family, have you seen it?”

“With the three little girls? In a… sitting room wasn’t it?” The group beyond Bomford came closer, one of the women in the center. Her hair was dark and hung just past her shoulders. The others seemed to be circled around her, keeping her safe. 

“Yes!” Oyenusi replied. “That’s the painting.”

“Lovely,” de Cowell said, wrenching his attention back to the guests in front of him. “Your costumer did a beautiful job with the garments.” Whoever had made their costumes had to have been a master because Oyenusi’s dress looked like it could have been worn by the woman in the painting.

Oyenusi smiled. “Thank you, my Lord – sorry, Mitchel.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not used to meeting royalty,” Oyenusi admitted. 

“That’s alright, I’m not really royal. I’m only sort of noble. By paperwork more than anything else.”

Lee snorted behind de Cowell but kept silent, and Sophie made a point of keeping her head down. de Cowell suspected she was laughing. 

Oyenusi smiled. “Well then, that’s okay, I suppose.”

“Indeed.”

“By the way,” Bomford began. de Cowell’s eyes flicked over to where he’d last seen the woman and her group. They were gone. He looked back at Bomford. “The next meeting of the art repatriation committee will be on the 27th, if you are still interested.”

“I am indeed.”

“Good. Several of the pieces you mentioned are on the agenda. I’ll make sure your secretary gets all the information on when and where.”

“Thank you.”

Bomford and Oyenusi made a show of bowing and curtsying before they melted into the crowd. 

“Curtis’ paintings?” Lee asked, stepping up beside de Cowell. They watched Bomford and Oyenusi disappear into the crowd while Sophie waved over one waiter with champagne and another with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. 

de Cowell nodded, accepting a flute. “David confirmed they received one of the stolen portraits three years ago.”

“Right around the time Curtis was sold to the ring in Spain,” Lee said. de Cowell could hear the wheels turning in his Lee’s mind. 

“Deborah told me that she’s not sure if it’s ever going to go on display,” Sophie said.

“Why buy it and then not show it?” Lee asked after finishing his mouthful of salmon and brie on toast, 

“No idea,” Sophie said. “She seemed very uncomfortable about the whole thing. Maybe someone told them how their dealer had gotten his hands on it?”

“Whatever the case,” de Cowell cut in, “they’re considering returning now. Lee, I’ll want you with me for that meeting. Maybe Terrance as well.”

“Sure thing.”

“Sam Sparro,” Sophie said with a nod to the man approaching. She and Lee took a step back as de Cowell turned to greet his friend. 

“Sam!”

“Well don’t you look stunning,” Sam said coming up to de Cowell, his hand outstretched. “And very appropriate, my Lord Phoenix.”

de Cowell took Sam’s hand with a smile. “It took some doing to work out, but was there really any other choice?”

“For you? Never!” Sam laughed, taking a step back. “I like it though. It suits you. And your tailor is brilliant.”

“Thank you, I’ll tell the guys at Skin Graft that you said so.” 

“Cassidy Haley?”

“You know him?”

Sam laughed. “I have to pry Adrian away from him whenever we go out. The two of them are terrors with colored pencils and a scrap of paper!”

“Well it’s worth it.” de Cowell spread his hands out and turned a little, showing off his coat. 

“True. Good choice.” Sam nodded then waved at his own costume. “What do you think? Will I do?” Sam turned in place, arms out to display the scarlet silk tailcoat he was wearing over black slacks and black shoes so shiny de Cowell could almost see his own reflection in them. 

“Not very sparrow-like,” de Cowell smirked. He twirled his finger indicating he wanted Sam to turn around once more. 

“Funny. Sparrows are boring. Brown, brown and more brown.” 

de Cowell grinned. “So what are you supposed to be?” 

“A red giant star!”

de Cowell looked at Sam and then across the hall to where Sam’s partner Adrian Gilliland was laughing with several of the local art scene stars. Adrian was also dressed in a deep red tailcoat and black pants, but he was at least a foot shorter than Sam. de Cowell looked about back at Sam and laughed. 

“A binary star system? That’s a stretch even for you two!” 

“Ah, but you figured it out! So it’s not that much of stretch.” 

de Cowell shook his head still laughing then bowed his head, conceding the point. 

“How is Adrian?”

“Good. The costumes were his idea.” 

“Of course.” 

“He has a showing coming up next month. He wants you to come, if you’re still in the States.”

de Cowell nodded and smiled his most careful smile. “I’d like that. Have him call Sophie or Lee. They are the guardians of my calendar. I’ll tell them to make it a priority.”

“Thank you.” 

de Cowell’s eyes scanned the crowd for the dark haired woman again. She should be easy to find, she was costumed in all-black, one of the few he’d seen so far that evening dressed that way. Her mask was of a bird, a raven probably given its swooping sides and feathers, her dress was floor length, tight at the waist then sweeping out into what had to be yards of unrelieved black silk. That costume could only have been designed for one person. His- Adam Lambert’s mother, Leila. 

He gripped the fingers of his free hand into a fist, pressing his short nails into his palm, using the pain to distract himself. He pulled his gaze back to Sam.

“It isn’t early enough for you to have caused any trouble, I’m assuming,” de Cowell said, trying to keep himself focused on Sam. 

“Me?” 

“You.”

“Well I might have pinched Lucian’s ass, but that’s only because it looks so good in those pants.”

“And because as CEO of Universal Music Group Lucian Grainge is effectively your boss.”

“Only for another year.”

“Really?” de Cowell was surprised. He’d thought Sam had longer than that left on his contract. It didn’t matter though. Sam wouldn’t leave Universal. 

“Maybe.”

“Right. Where are you going to go if you don’t re-sign with Lucian? Capitol? One of the little guys? Not likely. Lucian loves you and your insane antics-“

“And my Grammy and platinum album, let’s not forget those.”

“Never,” de Cowell conceded. “Lucian will find a way to keep you, even though you pinch his ass, and you know it.”

“Fine.”

de Cowell shook his head. “Go play with Adrian…” 

“I will. We intend to dance the night away under this galaxy of glitter that your spectacular staff has created, since I know you won’t.”

de Cowell sighed. 

“You love me.” Sparro grinned.

“Most days.”

Sam’s smile vanished. He leaned into de Cowell and spoke softly into his ear. “Hopefully you still will after you see this.” 

Sam slid a thumb drive into de Cowell’s palm and stepped back. de Cowell slipped his hand into his pants pocket and clutched the drive. 

“You’re not going to like it.”

“Wasn’t expecting to,” de Cowell said, smiling for the crowd as though they weren’t talking about hidden tapes and terrible people. 

“It’s worse than we thought.” Sam accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter with a false smile of his own. “I can’t tell you who made the recording.”

“Of course not.”

“But they barely made it out of the restaurant without showing their hand.”

“That bad?”

“The whole time. Nothing but disgust for everyone not like him. The man is a bigot, a racist, a homophobe, pick something. Wouldn’t be surprised if he hates small children.”

“Christ.”

“Probably hates him too.”

de Cowell shivered. “But it gets us what we need?”

“Plain as day. Show that,” Sam nodded at the drive in de Cowell’s pocket, “to anyone in the business and Fuller will never work again. If he thought the court case with CKX was bad, this will make that seem like a trip to Disneyland.”

“Huh. Okay then.” de Cowell tipped his glass to Sam with a grim smile. “To taking the bastard down.” 

“Indeed.” Sam touched his glass to de Cowell’s, and they both drank. 

“I had accounting cut your check this morning,” de Cowell said as they surveyed the colorful crowd. de Cowell spotted Leila Lambert and her family a few tables away. She was staring at de Cowell and Sam while someone, her younger son Neil, he thought given the height, said something to her. de Cowell looked away. 

Sam turned to de Cowell. “You know I didn’t do it for the money? Right?”

de Cowell turned to face Sam. He touched Sam’s arm. “I know, Sam. I know. I want to do this. You deserve to have the new studio, and I’m honored you asked me to be a part of it.”

Sam closed his eyes and sighed, then opened them. “Thank you.”

“You and Adrian have been good friends, and I want to help however I can.”

Sam bowed his head, his fingers wrapped around his glass. 

“What is it?” de Cowell asked. 

Sam shrugged. “I’m just-- we’re worried about you. Ever since you started working on this gala you’ve been – different. I don’t know what it is, but-“

de Cowell pulled back, and Sam stopped. 

“Just be careful with that information, okay? You’re important to us, you know?”

de Cowell laughed. “Sure. Of course.” 

Sam placed his hand on de Cowell’s cheek, turning him so they were eye to eye. “I mean it. Don’t make me have to explain to Adrian why you’re no longer around. Understood?”

de Cowell swallowed. That wasn’t a promise he could make. He looked over at Leila Lambert. Nothing mattered but tonight. There was nothing after tonight. 

He nodded anyway. “Understood.”

“Thank you.” Sam patted de Cowell’s cheek and slipped off into the crowd.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight  
Kristopher Allen, American Idol runner up Season Eight  
The Celestial Gala, Saturday, May 17th 2014

 

Kris tugged at the edge of his jacket for the third or fourth time since arriving at Boulevard3 then sighed. Nothing was going to make his outfit feel any less silly or odd. No amount of tugging or twisting in front of the mirror had helped an hour ago; nothing was going to help now. The frighteningly efficient assistant Sophie Carpenter sent over, a lovely man named Taylor something-or-other, had said that Kris looked amazing. Kris would just have to trust him. And Sophie had apparently picked out his costume and mask personally. She said it was supposed to be an eagle, Kris could sort of see that in the mask. It had a gold-ish beak and lots of deep red-brown feathers. A Golden Eagle maybe? His pants were some kind of shimmering silk or something in the same dark red-brown-gold like color and he had a shirt to match. Over that he had a coat-like thing made of leather and more silky fabric and a lot of feathers in brown and red and gold. It was supposed to look like he had wings and a tail. He wasn’t so sure about that. 

The fact was Kris didn’t do costumes. Much. That had been Adam and Katy’s thing. Wearing one now was just making him homesick for what he couldn’t have. Adam because he was gone, probably forever if the police were right, and Katy because, well, he still didn’t trust that things were ever truly going to be safe again, no matter what Sophie said. 

Kris looked over his shoulder. The bodyguard that Sophie had assigned to him was standing at the stairs watching the crowd. Several other men, and a few women, were wearing the classic black suits of private security. He wondered if their green ties meant they all worked for the Count. 

“Hey man!” Anoop bumped shoulders with Kris and handed him a beer. “I found where they stashed the good stuff!” 

Kris grinned and took the offered bottle with gratitude. It was a California micro brew that he’d never heard of before but it was cold and dark. He took a sip and sighed with pleasure. “Nice.”

“Told you.” Anoop clinked his bottle against Kris’ and took a sip. “Ah! Isn’t this place amazing?”

“Yeah.” 

“Reminds me of the Idol parties, only more!”

“Much more.”

“Yeah. How much do you think this Count is spending on Danny anyway?”

Kris flinched. He hadn’t seen Danny Gokey arrive yet. Kris didn’t want to see him, but he did. He knew from something Sophie had said that tonight was about more than Danny’s new company or even his charity. The Count and his staff were up to something. Kris wanted to know what that was but he was terrified as well. 

“No idea,” Kris said. He took a gulp of his beer, stalling, but Anoop wasn’t paying attention. 

“Man, the guy wins Idol, marries Kara and now this? How lucky can one man be?”

“Got me.” 

There was a knot of people a few tables away, near the back of the ballroom, standing around someone, Kris figured it had to be the Count, dressed in a blaze of fiery colors. On either side of him were a man, who Kris didn’t know, and a woman who he assumed was Sophie. He saw her wave, looked behind him and then back at her. She was smiling.

“I think we’re up,” he said to Anoop. 

“Kris Allen,” Sophie said, as he stepped in front of the Count. “Mitchel de Cowell, the Count de Cowell.” 

Kris started to bow, then held his hand out, then dropped it, completely at a loss as to how to greet nobility. The Count smiled and offered his own hand. 

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Allen.”

“And,” Sophie continued, “Anoop Desai.”

“Of course. A pleasure.” The Count extended his hand to Anoop. 

“My Lord,” Anoop said, taking the Count’s hand.

“Please, call me Mitchel.”

“Um. Okay, Mitchel, then I’m Kris. I hate being called Mister.”

de Cowell leaned toward Kris. “So do I.”

Kris laughed. 

“How is your mother doing, Anoop?” Mitchel asked. 

“Very well, thanks to you.”

Kris looked over at Anoop who shrugged and looked away. “The Count- Mitchel is helping with Mom’s medical bills. Remember I told you about her cancer treatment?”

“Yeah, but I thought she was done with that.”

“Mostly, but there were some complications and…” Anoop stumbled to a halt. 

“And I offered to help,” the Count finished smoothly.

Kris looked from Anoop’s flushed face over to Sophie’s stony expression and nodded. “Ah. That’s very generous of you.”

The Count shook his head. “I do what I can, where I can.”

“Like my new contract?” 

“You didn’t tell me you had a new deal!” Anoop said.

“It just happened.” Kris was looking at the Count as he answered. The Count’s green eyes were cold but not mean. There was nothing about his demeanor that suggested he was lying to Kris or Anoop or using either one of them, only that he was closed off. “Mitchel helped me get out of my contract with 19E and land a new one.”

“That’s fantastic!”

“Yeah,” Kris said, his eyes still on the Count. The Count was watching him as well. Kris spoke to that intensity instead of Anoop. “I’d just about given up. After the last round of meetings about my second album- the meetings that didn’t happen- I figured I was done. Just pack it in and find a teaching job or something.” He shrugged. “It wouldn’t have been so bad. I’m a good teacher.”

“I know,” the Count said quietly, then cleared his throat. “Sophie mentioned in her report that you had taught before.”

Kris nodded. There was something else in the Count’s eyes now. The hue was different. The cold was gone. 

“But then you stepped in and fixed everything.” Kris smiled. “You saved me.”

“No,” the Count said, his voice still oddly quiet. “I just gave you the tools to move on again. By not giving up, you’d already saved yourself.”

Kris narrowed his eyes trying to see past the words and the noise around them. There was something more to what the Count was saying. Something Kris should understand. 

“That’s incredible, man,” Anoop said. 

The spell shattered. The Count blinked and looked over at Anoop with a patently false smile. 

“It is what I would hope anyone with the power to help would do in my position.”

Anoop grinned. “Yeah, still. Thanks. Kris deserves the second chance, and I’m glad he’s getting it.”

The Count inclined his head. “You’re welcome.” 

The guy behind the Count stepped forward and held his arm out, indicating that they should step away. 

“It was nice to finally meet you, Mitchel,” Kris said, taking a step back.

“And you.” The Count nodded to both of them and turned toward his assistant. 

“Kris?” the Count called as they started to leave.

Kris turned back, waving Anoop off into the crowd. “Hm?”

“Katy? I’m sorry, your wife, Katy isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Kris stopped breathing.

“How is she?”

“Fine. Fine.” Kris felt like an animal scenting a trap. “At home in Arkansas.”

“Oh. Then you two haven’t reconciled? I was hoping…”

Kris looked at the Count’s eyes through his mask. There was that strange not quite warmth and that same almost recognition again. Kris took a deep breath and then another and told his heart to calm the hell down. Sophie had said Katy was safe. She was safe, damn it.

“No. I mean, not yet. I hope-“

“Oh.”

“I haven’t. I don’t know how to explain what happened. Not yet at least. It’s all too much. Too new to trust. If that makes sense?”

“It does.” The Count closed his eyes; Kris could see a swirl of green on his lids, then the Count opened them and nodded with a sad smile. “I hope you’ll let her know that I’m sorry for what you and she have been through. When you do finally talk with her.”

Kris tilted his head, puzzled. “Um, sure. Thank you.”

“You were so good for each other,” the Count whispered. There was something there, in the Count’s voice, that sounded painfully familiar to Kris. 

“Mitchel?”

“Hm? Nothing.” The Count stepped back, suddenly more cheerful than he had been during their entire interaction. And more fake. “I hope you enjoy the party.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that.” Kris nodded and stepped off to the side and out of the way. As he moved, Kris saw Sophie step up to the Count. 

“Mitchel,” she asked, one hand on his sleeve. “Are you okay?”

Kris saw Mitchel nod. “Fine. Fine.”

“Do you need me to-“

The Count waved away whatever Sophie had been about to say. “No, it’s fine. I just. It was stranger than I expected.”

“Seeing Kris?”

The Count nodded. 

The other assistant leaned forward. “Gokey’s car just pulled up.”

“Shit,” the Count said, his fists clenching. 

“It’s okay,” Sophie replied. “It will take them at least twenty minutes to get through the gauntlet out front and then another ten or so to make it here to you. You have time.”

“Breathe,” the man beside them said.

“I know what to do,” the Count snapped. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Thank you both for caring so much. I’m fine.” He brushed one hand down the front of his costume. “Who’s next?”

Sophie looked past the Count to the other assistant. He nodded and Sophie looked at the people milling around near by, then at her notes. 

“Sebastian Kirkland, Australian Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary to the United States, and his wife Elizabeth.”

The Count nodded again. “Good. I need to talk to Bastian about the entry visas for those kids we picked up last month.”

Kris ducked behind a passing waiter as Sophie stepped into the crowd and over to a couple dressed in matching pale violet-blue outfits, both their masks and the woman’s dress were covered in small five-petaled flowers. Sophie touched the man lightly on the arm and said something to him. He nodded, then he and the woman with him followed Sophie back to where the Count was waiting. 

Kris spent the next half an hour or so watching the Count meet with guests from the Ambassador and his wife who he greeted with respect and a hint of friendship, a woman in a barely-there silver dress who laughed loudly and received the coldest welcome of all, to a trio of young men, in what had to be homemade costumes, who the Count greeted like long-lost friends. 

With each group, the Count would be courteous and attentive but at some point his eyes would wander and fix on a point in the room. It took Kris a while to figure out who the Count was watching, but then he saw her, a woman in black with a raven mask, surrounded by a tight-knit group of people. A few of the times when the Count’s eyes found her, she was waiting for him, her face turned toward the Count, not moving an inch. Each time that happened the Count turned away quickly and looked somewhere else before returning his attention to the guests he was speaking with. 

What amazed Kris was that during all of this, the Count never once lost the thread of his conversations. He never once gave the slightest hint to his guests that his attention wasn’t completely on them. If Kris hadn’t been watching he would never have known that the Count was utterly distracted. 

It was obvious the moment Danny arrived, not so much because of the change in the crowd, though that did happen. The sounds around Kris shifted, voices dropping suddenly and then rising just as quickly, the people around him gravitating toward the front of the room where Danny and Kara were entering. All those signs were secondary to the look of pure hatred on the Count’s face when he caught sight of Danny Gokey. 

Looking past the crowd, Kris hunted for his first sight of Danny. Near the front of the ballroom, Danny was holding court in a gold tuxedo jacket and glittering sun mask. At his side, Kara stood wrapped from head to toe in black and rhinestones, like the perfect backdrop. Danny was laughing with a man standing next to him, carefree and happy, as though there was nothing wrong. As though he didn’t know that his host hated him. 

Kris looked back at the Count. The rage was gone, replaced by perfect civility as he walked toward Danny. For a moment Kris wondered if he’d imagined the anger radiating off the Count but then he noticed the tension buzzing between the security guards lining the room. They’d been nearly smiling a few moments earlier, before Danny’s entrance. Now they all stood ramrod straight, eyes searching the crowd for any sign of trouble. As though they expected trouble. It made no sense. 

“Danny!” the Count called out. He and Danny met in the middle of the ballroom, almost as if they had planned it. “So good to see you in person at last”

“My lord, Count!” Danny replied, taking the outstretched hand. 

“Please, please. After all we’ve been through together.” The Count smiled and the crowd around them laughed politely. “Call me Mitchel.”

Danny dipped his head with a grin. “Mitchel. Thank you so much for doing all of this.”   
He spread his hands and turned slowly, waving at the artfully decorated tables around them. “The charity and Celestial Records thank you.”

There was applause from the crowd. The Count bowed his head and then waved his hand to quiet the crowd. 

“I’m glad you like it. It’s nothing less than you deserve.” Danny dipped his head again, his face looking like it was going to split in two from his smile. “But, there will be enough time for speeches after we eat, now that our guest of honor is here.” 

The Count offered his arm to Kara, who took it after a moment’s pause. He led them both to a table at the center of the room where he seated Kara, and then waved Danny to the place of honor at his right. Kris watched the Count nod to Sophie. A moment later the lights in the ballroom dimmed and waiters appeared. Kris scrambled for his own seat, leaving the Count to his performance.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine   
Tommy Joe Ratliff, musician  
The Celestial Gala, Saturday, May 17th 2014

 

Dinner was nearly done, dessert left to come and the last of the dishes being cleared away by servers dressed in all black with silver ties. Tommy watched, kind of fascinated, as they danced between tables, sweeping plates, silverware (and Tommy would bet Danny’s money it was real silver), and crystal glasses away while the guests pointedly didn’t notice. But Tommy noticed. Of course he did. He was used to being part of the background, seeing what others didn’t see, being a thing to be used and taken for granted. 

At least Tommy’s seat at the outcasts’ table was at the back, in the safety of the shadows. The table itself was up on the mezzanine that wrapped around the main floor of the ballroom, tucked out of the way and under the balconies. The main floor was where all the important people of the party were sitting – Danny and Kara (Tommy knew all about her, maybe even more than Danny realized, since Danny talked in his sleep), the Count who was throwing this shindig and all the other celebrities here to fawn over Danny. 

Danny’s table was actually in the middle of the room where everyone could see him in his garish gold suit. The man looked like a lounge singer with too much money and no taste, oh wait… Tommy hid a grimace, twitching his dessert fork. He’d been forced to listen to both of Danny’s albums as well as the songs that hadn’t made the cut. He hated every single song, and not just because Danny couldn’t sing his way out of a paper bag. The man had no taste and no rhythm. Listening to his music was like having battery acid poured into Tommy’s ears. Slowly. For a really long time. 

Tommy jerked the forked too hard and it slammed into his water glass with a bright burst of sound. Several of his tablemates frowned over at him. He pulled his hands into his lap and dropped his eyes, hoping that there was enough distance between them to keep Danny from noticing his mistake. When the conversations around him resumed, Tommy risked a glance down at the main floor. Danny was engrossed in a conversation with the Count. He didn’t seem aware of Tommy at all. 

Tommy breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. 

Even hidden in the shadows Tommy was sure Danny was watching him. He’d seen Danny look toward his table a couple of times during dinner. Tommy thought he’d seen Danny’s eyes harden like they did when he was mad, but the distance made it hard to tell for certain. All Tommy could do was be careful. Even if people didn’t explicitly know that Tommy belonged to Danny, anything Tommy did would reflect back on him. Danny had made that abundantly clear. 

Tommy pressed a hand to the bruise on his ribs. 

Very, very clear. 

Tommy wasn’t sure if the other people at the table were also sluts and whores -- _sorry “Mistresses”_ \-- who’d been dragged along as baubles to the gala or what. Clearly none of them rated much on the importance scale as they were in the shadows with Tommy. And just as clearly they all seemed to think Tommy was not worth their time. Not one of them had spoken to him since he’d been shown to his seat at the start of dinner. Then again that could have been Danny’s doing, spreading word to Tommy’s tablemates that he was not to be spoken to. 

Of course it could have been the dress, but given the drag queens Tommy’d seen tonight he found it hard to imagine that anyone at this party would look down on a man in a dress. Maybe it was the fact that Tommy was deeply uncomfortable in the damn thing. It was pretty enough, silver and shimmery, but Tommy had never done drag in his life. He’d never felt comfortable with the idea, and Danny knew it. Which was of course, why Danny had him trussed up in a dress that Danny said would make him look like the perfect “fallen star”. The thing was almost floor-length on one side and nearly indecently short on the other, showcasing more than half of Tommy’s left thigh in a flutter of scorched ruffles. And it was strapless. Danny’d even sent someone over to bleach Tommy’s hair platinum blond and do his make-up so that he looked as much like a girl as possible. The whole thing made Tommy feel horribly exposed. 

Tommy looked down at Danny again. He was leaning toward Kara, whispering something in her ear. She shook her head. Tommy could see Danny’s hand snake out from his lap to grab her arm. He must have squeezed it because the next moment Kara was nodding her head like a broken marionette. Danny smiled and Tommy shivered, he hated that smile. It was Danny’s “I own you and aren’t you glad I do” smile. He made it whenever he got his way about something. Or right after he’d hurt Tommy just enough to startle a cry out of him. Apparently he used the same bag of tricks on Kara. How original. Tommy wondered if it was wrong to feel happy that someone else was getting Danny’s full attention tonight. 

He sighed along with Kara as Danny turned his attention to someone across the table. Of course Kara had more freedom and the fallacy of marriage to tide her over while Danny beat her. Tommy was happy just to have a few hours of peace and relative quiet that the gala was providing. 

The two women next to Tommy got up with a scrape of wood on marble and disappeared into the crowd. Others around the ballroom were starting to mingle prior to the promised _spun sugar extravaganza_. 

Tommy rolled his shoulders to stretch out his neck. He wasn’t used to sitting up so straight but the damn dress demanded it. If didn’t’he’d be showing way more skin than he already was. 

When Burly Bob, as Tommy called his “bodyguard”, had turned up earlier in the evening with the dress and stylist, Tommy’s heart had nearly stopped beating. Burly was the reason Tommy didn’t go out, didn’t even try to test the limits of his cage any more. 

The first month after Danny had moved Tommy into the penthouse everything had seemed amazing. Danny had been even sweeter and kinder than Tommy had ever imagined. There had been the occasional weird things between them, some things had been said that Tommy had ignored at the time. Then one day Tommy had decided to go for a walk. He hadn’t even been thinking of leaving Danny, he’d just been tired of being inside and wanted some fresh air. 

He’d gotten as far as the elevator lobby. 

Burly had been there, reading or something. He’d told Tommy to go back inside the apartment, but Tommy hadn’t seen any reason to listen. He’d just punched the button for the elevator. The next thing he’d known Burly had had him in a chokehold and had been dragging him back inside the apartment. 

_”Boss said I get you for an hour the first time you fuck up.”_ Burly had laughed and explained what he meant with his fists and his dick. 

A month later, Tommy had tried sneaking out when the grocery delivery guy left. Burly had had him for two hours. 

The next time Tommy had tried to get away, Burly had just grinned and said thank you. Four hours later, they’d had to call in a doctor to set Tommy’s ribs and cracked jaw. Then Danny had had his turn. 

Tommy had never tried again.

Tommy clenched his fists around the stem of his water glass. It hadn’t even occurred to him that leaving the penthouse for the gala would mean a chance to escape. They’d trained him that well. 

Of course, Danny had thought of everything so Burly was there to keep an eye on him. Except that he wasn’t because gala security had refused to allow any outside security personnel inside the building. Burly had been politely but forcefully offered a position with the other hired guards on the perimeter teams. It meant Burly would know if he left the building, but for the first time in ages, Tommy was on his own outside the penthouse. If he could just figure out a way to live at Boulevard3, his life would be perfect. 

“Mind if I sit down?” 

Tommy looked up. A handsome man in the black suit and green tie of gala security was standing beside a vacant chair next to Tommy. 

“Um--” Tommy said, suddenly worried that he’d done something wrong. 

“Don’t worry,” the man said with a smile that lit up his warm brown face. “You’re not in trouble.”

“Okay.”

The man held out his hand. “Terrance Spencer, head of security for the Count de Cowell and Phoenix Fire Industries.” 

Tommy darted his eyes down to the main floor to check for Danny. For a moment Tommy panicked, his heart racing when he couldn’t see Danny beside Kara. Then he heard Danny’s laugh and followed the sound. Danny was standing one table over, talking with a man in a painfully ugly kilt and black jacket. He wasn’t looking at Tommy at all. 

“Tommy Ratliff,” he said, finally taking Terrance’s hand. 

“I know.”

“You do?”

Terrance nodded. “We made a point of inviting you to the gala. I’m sorry, by the way.”

“Um. What?”

“For getting you in trouble. We’ve had the penthouse bugged.” 

Tommy recoiled. He didn’t want anyone to know what went on in that apartment. _He_ didn’t want to know. He did his best not to remember each morning when the sun rose on another day.

“You what?” Tommy tugged his hand out of Terrance’s. 

“We’ve had surveillance on you for a couple of weeks, watching what went on over there.”

Tommy gripped his hands together in his lap, his eyes flicking to Danny out on the main floor and then back to Terrance. Of course the apartment had been bugged. Danny would never leave him on his own. He should have known someone was watching him. Anger and shame welled up inside him. “Did Danny enjoy the videos?”

Terrance blinked. “He doesn’t know. We aren’t working for him.”

“Yeah, right. Danny owns everyone.”

“Not us. Not me. I really do work for the Count.”

“Who’s a friend of Danny’s,” Tommy pointed out.

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Look, we know what Gokey’s doing to you,” Terrance said, one hand out. “It’s okay. I’ve been where you are. I know what you’re going through.”

“There’s nothing going on.” Tommy pushed his chair back and stood up. No matter who Terrance was working for, Tommy needed to get away from him or this conversation was going to get him killed. 

“Tommy,” Terrance said, touching his arm but not grabbing him. “Tommy, I can help. I can get you out. Away from Danny, if that’s what you want. I can get you out tonight. You can be safe again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Tommy yanked his arm away, intending to run somewhere away from this frightening man. 

“Please,” Terrance begged. “Listen. I know it’s terrifying and seems impossible. But will you at least give me a chance to explain? Tell you what I can do? How I can help?”

“You can’t help,” Tommy hissed. “No one can. Just – stop!”

Terrance snagged Tommy’s wrist. His fingers were warm and tight but not painfully so. “Sit down before you attract his attention.”

Tommy blinked then looked back down to the ballroom floor. Danny was looking around, looking up at the shadows toward Tommy’s table. _Shit._ Tommy slid back into his seat and pressed his free hand to his forehead. _Shit._

“I can help you,” Terrance said again. He let go of Tommy and smoothed his fingers over the back of Tommy’s wrist. “I know what Gokey and his kind are like, and I know something about these kinds of situations.”

Tommy looked up at Terrance. He looked so sincere, as if he really meant what he was saying. But Danny had looked sincere at the beginning too.

“Listen, give me ten minutes to explain, and if you don’t believe me or don’t trust me, you can come back here and go on with your life. Okay?”

Tommy glanced down at Danny again. He’d moved over to another table of sycophants, Kara trailing behind him with a fake smile and her arms clutched around her chest. She had the marriage and the money, true. But she had no more freedom than Tommy did. Tonight was a dream wrapped in a nightmare, for both of them. Could he really get out? 

Terrified, Tommy nodded. 

“Good. Okay--” Terrance pulled something from his breast pocket and handed it to Tommy. It was a magnetic key card. “This will give you access to the Elite Balcony Suite upstairs. Meet me there in about ten minutes. That will give me enough time to make sure Gokey is distracted.”

Tommy just stared at the card.

“Will you do that? Please?”

Tommy looked up at Terrance. Could he really do this? There wouldn’t be another chance to find out. After tonight Tommy would be back in the penthouse, locked away from the world with no one even knowing he was still alive. Barely. 

Tommy took the card. 

“Thank you.” Terrance stood up and indicated one of the other gala guards down the way. “If you need anything, just ask one of my guys. They know to keep an eye out for you. They’ll do everything they can to help you.”

“O..okay,” Tommy said to Terrance’s retreating back.

~*~

Tommy slid the card through the magnetic reader, watched the light blink green, and slipped inside to the quiet of the Elite Balcony Suite. The room was long and narrow, running along the short end of the ballroom, and open on one side to look out over the dance floor. There was an assortment of leather couches, love seats, ottomans and side tables, all staged to make the space feel open yet cozy at the same. Only a few of the table lights were on and none of the overheads, giving the suite a muted glow. 

“Terrance?” Tommy called softly, stepping around a couch. 

A shadow separated from the far wall. It was taller than Tommy remembered Terrance being and it shimmered with more color. 

“Who’s there?” 

“I’m sorry, Terrance told me to meet him here.” Tommy pressed his fingers to his mask, needing the reminder that he was safe in his anonymity. He took a step back, nervous all of a sudden. 

“Terrance isn’t here,” the man said. He stepped into the light and Tommy gasped. It was the Count. Tommy had thought the man was beautiful from a distance with his copper-red hair twined with fiery ribbons that flowed in to a perfectly fitted shimmering coat. Up close, and without his mask, especially without that, he was magnetic. 

“I’m sorry, sir. Um, my Lord… sir…Count, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The Count chuckled as he walked slowly toward Tommy. “Only one is necessary if you’re going to being formal.”

“Um. Okay? What?” Tommy asked confused. 

The Count smiled, but it felt fake somehow to Tommy, as though there should be more light shining from those green eyes. “My title is Count. On very formal occasions, usually back home in England, people refer to me as _my lord_ and when Lee is feeling particularly annoyed with me he calls me _sir_.”

“Okay. So, what should _I_ call you?”

The Count shrugged. “That depends.”

“On what?” Tommy twitched as the Count sidestepped a table and walked around behind him instead of directly toward him. It was almost as though the Count was playing with him, watching him squirm and measuring his reactions. Tommy tangled his fingers in the folds of his dress and tried to stand still. 

“On whom you are?”

“Oh. Um. Tommy. Tommy Joe Ratliff.”

The Count stopped moving mid-step. His outstretched hand paused in mid-air then clenched into a fist. “Tommy,” he whispered. “Ratliff.”

“Yeah.” Tommy twisted around to look over his shoulder at the Count. He looked spooked. Like he’d seen a ghost. His fingers twitched open and shut before his hand fell to his side. 

“So they found you.”

“Um. Yes?”

“Good.” The Count nodded. He started walking again, prowling around to Tommy’s front. He waved his hand at Tommy’s dress. “That’s quite the costume you have on _Tommy._ ”

Tommy shivered. There was something hard and bitter in the way the Count said his name. He turned, intending to step away, but the Count stopped him. With one hand on Tommy’s shoulder holding him still, the Count slid his other hand around to the back of Tommy’s head, undid the tie binding his mask and tugged it from Tommy’s face.

“Mmmmm,” the Count purred, handing Tommy his tarnished silver mask. “Such a pretty dress for a pretty face.”

“Please don’t.” Tommy gripped his mask in both hands and tried not beg. He felt like prey under the Count’s gaze, hunted and about to be devoured. He wanted to hide but was frozen in place, a part of him drawn by the Count’s magnetism, while another part screamed at him to run. 

“What’s wrong? A boy as pretty as you must be used to people admiring him all dressed up in beautiful clothes.”

“I’m not- I don’t do this.” Tommy flapped his hands at the dress and meant all of it, the dress, the makeup, hair and heels. He wasn’t pretty. Far from it. Danny had told him that repeatedly. 

“A shame,” the Count said. His hand pushed against the shimmering fabric, pressing it close to Tommy’s leg. “It looks good on you.”

Tommy backed up, and this time the Count let him. 

“Having a nice time?”

Tommy had no idea how to answer that question. He was there so Danny could look at him and gloat and rub Tommy’s very existence in Kara’s face. No one enjoyed something like that. And it was a safe bet that tonight or tomorrow, Tommy would pay for being there. So he asked a question of his own instead. 

“Avoiding your own party?” 

“Host’s prerogative,” the Count said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Aren’t you supposed to be with someone downstairs?” 

“I told you. Your security guy said to meet him here.”

“Changing up already?”

“What the hell does that mean?” Tommy asked. He was getting pissed. It was one thing for the lion to lick and nibble on it prey, if the prey was willing, but this spinning around just so he could bat Tommy into confused circles was too much.

With a shrug, the Count resumed walking, pacing in a slow loop around Tommy. “Just seems like you’re the type to trade one good deal for another.”

“You know fuck all about me.”

“I know that you’re here as my guest,” the Count ground out around that false smile. 

“And is it your _prerogative_ to invite anyone you feel like inviting, no matter who or what they are connected to?”

“Of course.” The Count ran a single finger along the edge of Tommy’s shoulder. His touch was so light, so gentle compared to the anger in the man’s voice that it sent a shiver through Tommy. 

“Or what it costs them?” Tommy pulled his shoulder out of reach but stayed where he was. He knew better than to shift too much. Men like Gokey and the Count were dangerous when angry. They would lash out at the slightest hint of disobedience. 

The Count didn’t answer or strike at Tommy. He just stood there, watching him with a strange look on his face. There was anger in his expression but also something dangerously close to pain. As Tommy looked, the Count blinked and his contacts shifted, showing electric blue under the green. 

“You--” Tommy cleared his throat, thrown. 

He’d seen those eyes before. Bright blue eyes looking down at him with so much love and need and want. They went storm-gray when he was angry and a color out of the depths of the sea when he was sad. Tommy looked at the Count’s face. There were similarities there. The jaw was the same, the cheekbones, though thinner and more shadowed, looked about right. The nose was different but only a bit, broken maybe? Was it possible that he knew the man standing in front of him? Really knew him?

Tommy changed what he had been planning on saying, grabbed at anything that would buy him time to watch and study the Count. “Why did you invite me?”

“Did I have to have a reason?”

“Yes,” Tommy insisted, feeling strangely daring. 

The Count’s face changed again, back to pure arrogance and blazing anger. He stepped into Tommy’s personal space and leaned until his mouth was at Tommy’s ear. “I was told you were just my type.”

That wasn’t the anger he remembered, but underneath it there was something familiar, a longing that Tommy knew to the core of his bones. Tommy lifted his chin, feeling bolder than he had in years. “So invite me to your room, not your expensive party.”

“You don’t like dressing up?”

“I’m pretty sure you know I don’t, since you seem to think you know like- everything about me.”

“Not everything,” de Cowell said, tracing the exposed line of Ratliff’s neck. “I don’t know why you’re living in a penthouse owned by Daniel Gokey. Or why no one has seen you, with the exception of this evening, in more than a year. Doesn’t he let you out to play?”

“That’s none of your business,” Tommy snarled, twisting away from the Count, all of his courage vanishing with the mention of Danny’s name. “Just…”

Tommy’s hands were trembling. The reality of where and who he was crashing in on him. It didn’t matter if this man was a walking memory or a figment of his imagination. Danny and his rage were real. Tommy needed to get away, needed to find Terrance and tell him that it was no good, it wasn’t safe. 

But he couldn’t get out. 

He was trapped. 

The Count followed as Tommy backed away.

“Does he fuck you in the kitchen, against the counters? Rough and impersonal? Or is it soft and sweet, two lovers caring for each other in the shower?”

“Stop it,” Tommy hissed. 

“Can’t bear to have your dirty laundry discussed in public, little boy?” The Count grabbed Tommy’s wrist and pulled him close. “Or do I have to fuck you to be able to really talk to you?”

“Stop it!” Tommy pushed at the Count’s chest. “Just stop!”

“Make me.” 

The Count grabbed Tommy’s head in one hand, his fingers curled tightly in Tommy’s hair and kissed him. 

Tommy pushed against him, fought for breath, fought to get away and then, as the Count’s tongue stroked across his, Tommy melted, all the fight going out of him. He remembered this. He remembered the taste and the feel of this mouth, the warmth of this body. 

He closed his eyes and let himself fall.

The Count released Tommy’s lips and pulled away slowly. Tommy could feel the Count’s hand on his cheek, caressing ever so gently like Tommy remembered. Then the Count kissed him again, so very softly. He loosened his grip on Tommy’s hair and used his hand to stroke down Tommy’s cheek and along his jaw. 

“Beautiful,” the Count whispered. 

“Shit, you always were good at that.” Tommy sighed. It didn’t make sense. This man couldn’t be real, but he was. He was here, holding Tommy just the way Tommy had dreamed of for the last five years. It was terrifying and wonderful all at once. 

“What?” the Count snatched his hands away from Tommy and stepped back. “What did you say?”

“I knew it was you,” Tommy said, opening his eyes slowly. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can stop dying your hair, put in colored contacts, cover your tattoo.” He waved at the Count’s head and wrist. “Even alter your voice, but I can still tell. I’d know your kisses anywhere.”

The Count turned away from Tommy, pushing a hand through his own hair. “You don’t know me.”

“I do. I know you. You’re the only man I’ve ever been in love with.”

The Count whirled around and shouted at Tommy. “You know nothing about love!”

“I know that I love you, Adam Lambert. And I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you that when we fought that last time.”

The Count’s eyes went wide and he stumbled back, then straightened up. His neck was flushed where the foundation, that Tommy now recognized, ended, and his hands were balled into fists. He looked like a man about to explode. Tommy went rigid, not daring to move, afraid of what would come next. Suddenly terrified that he’d just destroyed the last hope he had in life. 

“Adam Lambert died two years ago! He died in a stinking cell in Amsterdam and you couldn’t be bothered to even mourn his passing before you whored yourself out to another man!”

Tommy rocked back, his mouth open but his voice silenced. 

“Don’t talk to me about love,” the Count snarled. “I was there. I saw him. I saw Lambert die of a broken heart and a bruised soul, no thanks to you.” He pushed past Tommy, copper hair and coat flying like fire behind him. 

“My Lord?” Terrance called out as the Count stalked past him and out of the suite. “Shit!” 

“Xander,” Terrance said into a mic resting against his cheek. Tommy waited, his heart hammering in his chest, as Terrance paused for a response. “Boss just blew out of the Elite Suite. Get a team on him. STAT.” There was another pause. “I’ll explain later. Just get on him and find Lee.”

Terrance closed his eyes, took a shuddering breath then opened them and looked at Tommy. 

“Are you okay?”

Tommy clutched his arms around his chest and lied. “Sure.” 

Terrance came closer. “I’m sorry about that. I expected him to be downstairs enjoying dessert.”

Tommy shrugged. “’S’okay.”

“No, it’s not. You didn’t need that. He didn’t need that.” Terrance turned and walked to the railing that overlooked the ballroom. “I’d planned to talk to him earlier tonight to explain what we’d found out about your situation.”

“So, I was right?”

Terrance looked over his shoulder at Tommy. “About who he is?”

Tommy nodded. 

“Yes and no? It’s complicated.”

Tommy didn’t know what to make of that but he saw the heartache plain on Terrance’s face. Knowing that the Count had someone who loved him made Tommy happy but it also made him want to cry because he’d thrown away the most precious gift he’d ever been given, all because he’d been afraid.

“You love him.”

“I do,” Terrance said softly. “I’d give my life for him. We all would.”

Terrance looked over at Tommy again. “He still loves you, you know. He just doesn’t trust love. Doesn’t trust much of anything anymore.”

“Oh.” Tommy bit his lip, relieved and not. “What—what happened?”

Terrance shook his head. “He was hurt, badly. Worse than anything you can imagine.”

“Shit.”

“We got him out-“

“Out? Out of where?”

“He was sold into a sex trafficking ring and forced to work as a sex slave for three years.”

“No. No!”

“Yes. Now listen.” Terrance took Tommy’s hand. “You are going to hear some stuff tonight, horrible things. Some of it is going to be about you. I’m sorry.”

“What things? What about me?”

“The surveillance tapes we have of you and Gokey, the Count has ordered them ready for viewing – well a selection of them any way – for tonight.”

Fear lanced through Tommy. “No! You can’t do that. Please! No!” 

“I can’t stop it. It’s done.”

Tommy pulled his hands away from Terrance. “Danny will kill me!”

“No, he won’t,” Terrance said. 

Tommy shook his head, dread overriding every thought. 

“Listen to me, Tommy. I told you before: I can get you out. After tonight, Danny won’t have any power over you. He won’t have any power at all.”

“No. You don’t know him-“ 

“We’re gonna take Danny down. He won’t be able to hurt you ever again.”

Tommy all but stopped breathing. Terrance couldn’t actually mean what he was saying. “You can’t… No one can…”

“We can. And we’re gonna.”

Reality hit, all the facts slamming into Tommy at once. “Oh man. Are you saying that Danny did that. What you said about--? Danny did all of this?” 

Tommy couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening. How could Danny do that? He swore he loved Adam. That he missed him as much as everyone else did. 

“Not alone. But yes.”

A memory flashed in Tommy’s mind, syrupy sweet words falling from Danny’s mouth as Tommy knelt on the dressing room floor during the Idol Tour. 

“Shit, no. That bastard. He knew. He fucking knew!”

“What are you talking about?”

Tommy’s mind was spinning. He walked away from Terrance, his fingers digging into his arms where they wrapped around his chest, digging holes so deep they’d never close. Everything about the last five years of his life was a fucking lie built by Danny Gokey. 

“Danny! Danny fucking knew, and he lied to me. He said-“ Tommy was shaking he was so angry. Angry and scared and lost. His whole world was shattering around him. He let go of his arms, his fingertips brushing the silver fabric of the dress Danny had wrapped him in and suddenly all he wanted to do was rip it from his body. He pulled at the fabric, stretching it to its limits. 

Terrance grabbed his hand. “Tommy, no. Not like this. Not now.”

“Let go!”

“You need to stop and think. If you rip this dress now, Danny will know something is up.”

Tommy’s hands froze. His heart stopped beating and then resumed at double time. He couldn’t let Danny know. Not that Adam was alive. Not that Tommy knew what Danny had done. None of it. Tommy shivered, fear boiling back up and over the anger. 

“Tommy,” Terrance growled, his face right in Tommy’s, his brown eyes glittering in the soft light. He was angry and scared too. “What did Danny say? Tommy? What did Danny say?”

Tommy gulped. The words were on the tip of his tongue. He almost said them, almost told the deepest darkest secret of his existence. But he couldn’t tell, not that. Not the truth of what Danny had whispered to Tommy over and over again for five years, until Tommy believed them heart and soul. But there were other things that Danny had said back then. Other things he had lied about. 

“He told me… He said that he had helped look for Adam. That he’d even donated money to the hotline fund. He swore the rumors of Adam’s death had to be a lie. But he was the one who was fucking lying.”

“Oh man. Oh, Tommy, I’m sorry-” Terrance whispered. 

“No! Don’t say that.” Tommy couldn’t stand the pity in Terrance’s voice. The whole situation was so much worse but he couldn’t tell Terrance that. He couldn’t admit what Tommy finally understood-- that Danny had twisted and lied and effectively blackmailed Tommy into being a whore. “I fucked up.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did,” Tommy said. There were tears in his eyes and pressure at the back of his throat. He felt like he was going to burst at any moment. He’d fucked up, hadn’t he? “I should never have believed that douchebag.”

“Hey, Listen to me. You did not fuck up. Lying is what that bastard is good at.” 

Terrance tugged on Tommy’s hand. After a moment of resistance, Tommy let himself fall into Terrance’s arms. He let himself be held by another human being without hate or malice for the first time in five fucking years. 

“Oh shit, Terrance. What have I done?” Tommy said, fighting back the tears. 

“It’s okay. We’re gonna fix things. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.” 

Terrance’s radio chimed. 

“Yeah?” Terrance said into his mic. There was a pause. “Okay. Be right down.”

Terrance gently pushed Tommy away so that they were facing each other. “It’s time. The Count’s about ready to show this crowd who Danny Gokey really is. Think you can handle it? I’ll have a guard with you for the rest of the night. No one will touch you, I promise.”

Taking a deep breath, Tommy nodded. It was now or never. “I guess. Okay. Yeah.” 

“Okay. You can do this,” Terrance said leading the way toward the door. “I know you can. And I promise, after tonight, you will have your life back.”


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten  
Mitchel de Cowell, the Count de Cowell  
The Celestial Gala, Saturday, May 17th 2014

 

de Cowell was pacing in the screened off area behind the bar. 

He couldn’t believe the gall of Ratliff. To stand there and lie to him about his relationship with Gokey. He was trussed up like a whore and still he covered for that bastard. How could he do that? After everything they’d-- he and Adam had been through? To toss Adam aside like that. For Gokey! After all the time Ratliff had sworn he wasn’t fucking gay, that he couldn’t be with Lambert because he couldn’t go public, couldn’t be out, couldn’t tell his fucking parents that he liked getting fucked in the ass. Now here he was, Gokey’s little boy toy. 

He slammed his fist into the wall, relishing the physical pain as it blacked out everything else and gave him something solid to focus on. 

Lee found him cradling his hand. He didn’t say a word, just took one look at de Cowell’s state and popped his head out of the curtains to wave at someone in the ballroom. A moment later, Sophie appeared at his side. She started to ask what he needed, took one look at de Cowell, nodded and slipped back into the ballroom. Lee waved to another person, then stepped back and flipped the curtain closed. In his hand were two glasses and several napkins. He put everything down on the lone table in the area and turned to face de Cowell.

“Do I really look that bad?” de Cowell growled. 

“You looked better half an hour ago,” Lee said as he on tugged de Cowell’s hand, stretching it out so he could poke at the knuckles. “Looks like nothing broke. Hold it there.” Lee leaned to the side for a napkin. He dipped the black cloth in the glass filled with water and washed off de Cowell’s knuckles. “Should I even ask what you were doing?”

de Cowell shrugged, watching with numb fascination as Lee poured ice from the second glass into another napkin, made a bundle of the whole thing and plunked it down on top of de Cowell’s now very sore knuckles. de Cowell hissed at the contact. 

“Talking to Ratliff.”

Lee stopped and looked up at him. 

“I hadn’t intended to. He found me upstairs and things went… “

“Badly?”

de Cowell nodded. The anger was, not gone, banked and channeled now that he’d punched the wall. He could still feel the bitter pain of Ratliff’s betrayal pulsing, but it was secondary to his cause again. Ratliff wasn’t his focus, Gokey was.

Sophie returned with her pet costumer and make-up artist in tow. Sutan tsked and fussed over the apparent damage de Cowell had done to his work then set about fixing everything. Ten minutes later, hair, make-up, and coat fixed and mask back in place, he pronounced de Cowell fit for an audience again. 

“Finally.” de Cowell rolled his shoulders and waved at the curtains. “Is everything ready?”

“Are you certain you want to go ahead with this?” Lee asked.

de Cowell stared at Lee, forcing himself not to clench his hands into fists, and waited. He would not let Lee or Sophie’s fears get in the way of what needed to be done. Gokey needed to be broken, like Lambert had been, like he had been. There was no room for kindness. He took a deep breath and waited. He’d waited for three years for freedom. He’d waited two more years for justice. He could out wait Lee. 

“Okay. All right.” Lee nodded. “Yes, they are ready for you. All the videos are set up and cued for immediate display around the room. But you should know…” 

“You’ve watched them all?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a problem?” de Cowell asked. 

Lee stepped close to de Cowell. He leaned in, his voice low and tight. “Mitchel…some of the videos…” 

de Cowell pulled his arm away, Lee rarely called him by name any more, now was not the time again. de Cowell couldn’t afford friendship right now. Friendship would only lead to failure. There were too many people depending on him, needing to be set free. Needing those videos as proof. The fools in the other room needed to know whom they were dealing with. Who the monsters really were. Lee knew that, damn it! 

de Cowell gritted his teeth, fighting to reign in the chaos pressing against his control. 

“Is. There. A problem?”

Lee stared at de Cowell then finally shook his head. 

“Good. Give them the signal.” 

Lee looked over at Sophie and nodded. de Cowell saw her speak into her headset. 

Inside the ballroom the band segued into a flourish and then the music de Cowell had chosen for his theme. Lee pushed open the curtains and de Cowell stepped into the spotlight to a burst of cheering. He strode to the front of the bar and up onto the small dais that had been erected there. Pulling off his mask he waved the crowd to silence. 

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen. Thank you all for joining me this evening for this celebration of my dear friend Daniel Gokey!” de Cowell rolled the patently false words off his tongue like they were the brightest jewels, trinkets to please any eye and fool any ear. He’d show them proof of friendship soon enough. 

Gokey strode toward the dais as they had discussed, and stepped up to shake de Cowell’s hand. It took every ounce of training de Cowell had to keep his smile in place and not pull his hand away in disgust. 

“It is my honor to be here with you all tonight,” Gokey began “and to welcome my friend the Count de Cowell to LA at last.”

The crowd cheered and de Cowell nodded to Sophie, who was standing just off to the edge of the dais. A photograph of Gokey, smiling and happy, appeared on the myriad screens set up around the room. 

“Since tonight is a celebration of Daniel, I asked my team to prepare a few images and videos for us – to remind us of the amazing journey he has taken us on.” de Cowell gestured toward the screens and people turned to watch as images cycled before their eyes. 

When the stills from Daniel’s nights on American Idol appeared the crowd cheered and smiled. The stills morphed into video clips of Daniel singing during the show’s finale and then into images from Daniel’s wedding to Kara. Slowly the music faded and was replaced by voices, too soft to hear at first, but de Cowell knew what they would be: Gokey yelling at his wife, the name calling on both sides, the sound of breaking glass and fists hitting flesh. 

The crowd was starting to shift, questions rippling through them in waves as the images changed again. X-rays of broken bones, police photos of Kara Gokey beaten and bruised, reports highlighting how she had refused to press changes against her husband. Then gasps as the crowd watched actual video footage of their star backhanding his wife, sending her sprawling across their luxurious living room. 

Kara’s sobs cut through the murmurs of the crowd, and de Cowell turned to watch her pull her shawl close around her body. The make-up and the long sleeves of her dress could no longer hide the truth of her marriage. 

“You bastard!” Gokey said, turning on de Cowell.

“Afraid of a little truth, Gokey?” de Cowell snapped his fingers and the screens blanked, leaving the room dim for a moment. When the next set of images didn’t come on immediately, de Cowell turned to Sophie and found Lee standing beside her. 

“Don’t do this,” Lee whispered. 

“Play the video,” de Cowell growled. 

“You have what you wanted, Gokey and Kara are both exposed now.”

“You told me you had more. I want them to see the rest.” The anger burned under his skin, pushing out toward Lee for getting in the way of his revenge. 

“You don’t want to see it.” 

“Play. The. Video.”

Lee dropped his head and then looked over at Sophie and nodded. The screens lit up once more. This time they showed a sleek modern apartment, all windows and chrome accents. 

A whispered, “oh shit” from the crowd almost pulled de Cowell’s attention away, but it was Gokey’s shocked expression that kept his focus. 

“Looks familiar doesn’t it?”

Gokey didn’t answer him, his gaze transfixed by the screens. de Cowell turned to watch as well. 

On the video screens, Gokey walked into view of the camera wearing only a pair of black silk pajama bottoms and a contented smile. He had set of bright pink scratch marks on his chest, and his cheeks were flushed. He pulled open the refrigerator door and stood looking at the contents for a moment. 

“Tommy!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Did you put the beer in the fridge?”

There was no answer. 

“Tommy?!” Gokey called again. “Get your skinny ass out here!”

Tommy Ratliff stumbled into view, wearing a faded band t-shirt and sweat pants. The shirt was rumpled and rucked up around his waist. de Cowell nearly choked at the sight.

“’M here,” Tommy – No. de Cowell refused to call him that. He’d walked away from Lambert, from everything, to be with Gokey. He could rot in hell for all de Cowell cared. Ratliff mumbled, his arms crossed over his chest and his head down, face hidden behind his fringe. “Beer’s on the bottom shelf in the back, so it’ll stay cold, like you like.”

“What’d I tell you about wearing that shirt?” Gokey made it a statement. 

de Cowell saw Ratliff’s fingers clench around his arms. A moment later, he yanked off the shirt and tossed it back down the way he’d come. Hand-shaped bruises decorated Ratliff’s right side just above his hip, and another one was just starting to darken on his left arm. 

A few of the guests at the gala gasped at Tommy’s disheveled state. de Cowell wasn’t all that surprised, disgusted, yes, to see him marked up by Gokey, but with his fair skin Ratliff would, -- _did_ de Cowell’s memory supplied -- bruise easily.

“Better.” Gokey turned back to the fridge. “There you are.” He grabbed a beer and stood back up. He popped the cap and took a long swallow. “Ah, nothing like a cold one after a good fuck!”

A louder, angrier, ripple of discontent wove through the watching crowd. 

“Don’t you agree,” Gokey purred at Ratliff as he backed Ratliff up against the kitchen wall. He leaned down and kissed Ratliff’s shoulder. “Mmm, so sweet.” 

Ratliff shivered. 

“You cold, baby?”

Ratliff nodded, arms still clutched to his chest. 

“I’ll keep you warm.” Gokey pressed in closer, leaning up against Ratliff so they were skin to skin, then he drew the beer bottle up along Ratliff’s exposed skin and laughed as Ratliff winced and shivered harder. “Shhhh, I’ll warm you up…” 

Gokey pressed the mouth of bottle against Ratliff’s chin. “Head up. Let me see your pretty face.”

Ratliff resisted at first. The silent battle going on between the two men was evident in the tension in their bodies. Gokey pressed harder until finally Ratliff’s head snapped up, his hair flying away from his face to reveal the bruises forming on his cheek and around his eye. 

“What?” de Cowell whispered, his throat went tight. A little bruising on that pale skin made sense but this? He hadn’t expected the darkening patches of color on Ratliff’s face that spoke of a painful grip and a harder fist, or the fear in Ratliff’s eyes. 

“Oh yeah, there’s my pretty boy,” Gokey whispered. He leaned in and kissed Ratliff over the mottling on his cheek. Ratliff jerked his head back and hit the wall. Gokey laughed and caught Ratliff with his free hand, holding him in place. “So feisty tonight. It’s almost like you want me to hit you. Is that it? Do you want me beat you?”

Ratliff shook his head, his eyes wide with fear.

“I will, if that’s what you want.”

“No,” Ratliff whispered. 

de Cowell stopped breathing. This couldn’t be happening. Ratliff --Tommy, his Tommy -- was supposed to be safe. Even if that meant he was in love with a bastard like Gokey, he was supposed to be safe. de Cowell had been so sure. 

“Tell me what you want, Tommy.” Gokey held onto Tommy’s face as he kissed him on the lips, long and hard, not stopping as Tommy struggled in his grip. When he pulled away, he backhanded Tommy. Tommy’s head struck the wall behind him, again. 

“No-“ de Cowell moaned. He wanted to look away. He wanted to tell Lee to turn off the damn feed, but it was too late. It was all too late. 

“Is this what you want, Tommy?” Gokey asked.

He looked up at Gokey through his fringe and shook his head, tears in his eyes. 

“I think it is. Little whore.” Gokey smacked Tommy again. “You want me to teach you a lesson for what you’ve done. For making me want you. Making me fuck you!” 

Tommy covered his head and seemed to shrink into himself as Gokey hit him over and over again. 

“Making me commit sin after sin after! Bringing me to this place of damnation!” Gokey pushed Tommy to the ground, out of view of the camera. His hands pushed at his waistband, and his pants slipped out of view. 

de Cowell stood motionless, trapped, as on screen Tommy’s head popped up, and he scrambled away from Gokey. Now he understood what Tommy had been trying to say in the suite. Why he’d been hurt and angry when de Cowell had … had hurt him. _oh god, no._ de Cowell had been as bad as Gokey. Pushing himself on Tommy, assuming he knew what Tommy wanted. Worse, assuming he could _take_ what he wanted from Tommy. 

“Don’t you dare pull away from me, slut.” _Words de Cowell had heard a thousand times over._

On the screens all around the room – all around de Cowell - Gokey jerked forward, reaching for the mass of blond hair that was momentarily in view. Tommy’s head disappeared as Gokey’s arms came forward. Gokey threw back his head. de Cowell couldn’t see Tommy or what he was doing, but he didn’t need to, it was clear from Gokey’s face what was happening. 

“You behave like a whore, then I have to treat you like one. Making me need your sinful fucking mouth, oh, god, yes. Suck me… harder.” de Cowell could hear muffled sounds, like someone gagging, but Gokey kept slamming his hips forward. “Don’t you dare stop, you little bitch!”

The video froze on the image of Gokey thrusting into a man made faceless and powerless by Gokey’s actions. de Cowell was going to be sick. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. All these years thinking that Tommy was safe. That he was free and happy. 

de Cowell stumbled back then righted himself. He wouldn’t let Gokey or any of them see him weak. Never again. 

“Fucking faggot!” Fuller shouted from near by. 

de Cowell jerked toward the sound to see Fuller looking at Gokey. “I should have known!”

“You’re a dead man, de Cowell. You’ll pay for this!” Gokey shouted.

Gokey launched himself at de Cowell but was caught by Terrance and Isaac who hauled him backwards and held on as he twisted and sputtered in their arms. 

“Let me go! de Cowell! de Cowell! You will pay for this!”

“No, Danny,” de Cowell said, his voice bitter and harsh, his rage barely restrained. “You will pay. For everything. For what you did to Kris Allen, for what you did to Kara, for what you did to Tommy and for what you did to Adam Lambert.”

“What?!” Gokey reared back. “What the hell are you talking about? I did nothing to Kris or Adam. I love those guys and Kara – she’s my damn wife, I can do whatever I want with her. And Tommy asked for everything I gave him.”

“Shut up,” Terrance said.

“I won’t! This is crap, and you all know it! I won that title on my talents. America voted for me!” 

“Did they? Or did you simply not give them any other choice?” de Cowell asked, his voice deadly quiet. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t. If he let go now… 

He turned to Lee and Sophie and nodded. 

The video screens, which had blanked to blessed whiteness some time ago, shivered and a man sat down in a chair in a plain room. He was short and plump with a nose that had to have been broken several times. He cleared his throat and looked up. Someone said something off screen, out of range of the microphone. 

“Yeah, yeah. I agree.” He nodded. “Of my own free will and all that crap.”

The other person said something else, and the man nodded again. 

“Okay, yeah. So, um. It was about five years ago. I was working for Costa Masur out in Burbank and he got a call for a job. A pretty sweet deal too. Pick up a guy and do what we want with him, so long as he disappeared for good – no body, no witnesses, that whole thing.” The man shrugged. “The security swap was some kind of inside job I dunno I wasn’t part of that. I just know that we showed up on the night of the job – “

The man stopped and looked up. The voice off screen said something, and the man waved a hand. “Right, May 13, don’t remember the year, but it was during that American Idol thing. The one that went so odd with the missing singer. The singer, that Lambert kid, was the one we were paid to take.” 

Another pause. The man looked down and then back up. “You swear I’m going to get a deal out of this, right?”

Whatever the voice off screen said must have satisfied the man, because he nodded and went on. “Yeah, I saw the guy who ordered the job. I was the driver for the night. He was the singer who won, Gokey.” 

There was a collective gasp around the room. 

“He handed us a hundred thou and told us to do whatever we wanted, as long as the guy never sang again.”

The video froze, and the screen went white.

“Danny?” de Cowell asked, turning toward Gokey. “Nothing to say now?”

“What the fuck does it matter? Lambert’s dead. Show-off got in the way of a stray bullet the night some Interpol freaks tried to break up the ring that had him. Word was he couldn’t even talk by the end, they’d fucked him so hard. Bet he liked it, too.” 

de Cowell roared and charged at Gokey. Terrance and Isaac held Gokey between them, but all de Cowell could see was the smirk on Gokey’s face. He wanted to wipe it off. Permanently. 

Xander and another guard, de Cowell didn’t know who and didn’t care, were pulling at his arms, holding him away from Gokey. 

“Boss! My Lord! Not like this,” Xander pleaded. 

“Let go of me!” de Cowell growled. 

“Adam!” a voice called from the crowd. de Cowell twitched. The name was picked up by others in the room. de Cowell could hear it whispered like a question. He ignored them all and kept moving. He had to get to Gokey; he had to. He knew now. He knew what Gokey had done. What Fuller had done.

“Boss just think, please,” Xander begged. de Cowell jerked against their grip and then relaxed. 

“You would know,” de Cowell said to Gokey, his broken voice low and dangerous. “You put him there. You made sure that he would never see the light of day. That he would hate his life so much he’d welcome that fucking bullet.”

de Cowell patted Xander on the arm. “It’s okay. I’m good. Thank you.”

Xander hesitated, then he and the other guard released de Cowell and stepped aside. 

Gokey’s eyes went wide as de Cowell stalked toward him. 

“You took everything from him, and now I am going to take everything from you. You and Fuller--” The crowd gasped. “You thought you were such big men, so strong and powerful. Now everyone knows the truth about both of you; how you use people and toss them aside, how bitter and pointless your lives are. How much you lust after what you can’t have.”

“Fuck you!” Gokey shouted, twisting and pulling at the arms restraining him. “You fucking freak! You don’t know anything. All you have is a bunch of pictures and the word of some criminal!” 

“You know nothing about me, de Cowell!” Fuller shouted from the foot of the dais. 

de Cowell turned on Fuller. 

“What happened, Fuller? You couldn’t let Lambert have his moment. Couldn’t stand to see someone as talented as him? Someone you couldn’t control? So, what? You had to take it for yourselves? Destroy him so you could look bigger, better than he might have been?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Fuller demanded. “I loved that kid!”

de Cowell stepped off the dais, his fist swinging through the air and striking Fuller on the chin before he was conscious of moving. His security guards scrambled to get to him and Fuller, some to hold Fuller down, Xander coming to stand beside de Cowell.

“Adam, stop!” the voice called again, closer. It sounded like Tommy, but Tommy was lost, gone beyond de Cowell’s reach. He was a ghost, trapped in Gokey’s web because Adam hadn’t been there to keep him safe. And the demons who had hurt Adam and Tommy were standing right in front of de Cowell. It was time to burn them all to the ground. 

“You loved the money and the fame he could bring you, you mean!” de Cowell towered over Fuller where he lay sprawled on the floor. Fuller swiped a hand across his mouth and stared, his eyes shocked when they came away red with blood.

“You’re crazy.”

“My Lord,” Lee said, materializing at de Cowell’s side. “Mitchel… you can’t do this to him. Not to Fuller.”

de Cowell stood up and turned on Lee. “Can’t I?” He ripped Sparro’s thumb drive from his pocket and thrust it at Lee. “Play that and then tell me what I can’t do.”

Lee frowned at the drive then nodded. 

There was silence in the ballroom as Lee slipped the drive into his tablet and keyed up the data. A burst of static replaced the glare of white on the screens and then they were filled with a moving image that was at a slightly skewed viewpoint. It was as though the camera was at chest height, only about a foot above the top of a table, just enough to see Simon Fuller talking across the table and part of a third person to the right of the camera. 

The scene was like something out of the sixties: three men in suits sitting around a table at an elegant restaurant. They were somewhere sunny and bright, all white linens and brushed chrome. Empty glasses littered the table. A waitress was removing square black dishes, her ample chest showing through her very low cut shirt. 

“--en these fucking photographs appear,” Fuller was saying. “I mean it’s not enough the kid has to dress like a freak? He has to go and get himself photographed kissing a guy? Why can’t they keep their fucking dicks in their pants like everyone else?”

The other men at the table laughed. 

“It’s gonna kill the show. I’m telling you. That kid is going to be the worst thing Idol has ever had to deal with. Fucking faggots.”

“You got that right,” the man between the camera and Fuller said. He raised his glass and saluted Fuller. Fuller clinked glasses with the guy, downed his drink in one swallow and then slammed his glass on the table. 

“’S okay.” Fuller slurred just a bit. “I’ve got it worked out. No way am I going to let Lambert be another Aiken. Christ. No. No fucking way. Not on my show!”

“What’re you going to do,” the person wearing the camera asked with a chuckle, making the image shake, “bribe America to vote him off the show?”

Fuller shook his head. “Better.”

“Yeah, right,” the other man said, leaning so close to Fuller that the dark brown hair of his beard could be seen. “You’ve got that show locked up tighter than a virgin’s ass. Now you have to live with the consequences.”

Fuller laughed and shrugged, waving at the waitress for another round. 

“Come on. You can’t just leave us with that. What’cha planning?” 

“Yeah, you know I could use a good plan to get around a few of my contestants too!”

All three men laughed. 

The waitress brought over another round of drinks. When she was gone, Fuller leaned in, one finger playing around the rim of his glass. He shrugged. “Simple really. You just need someone dumber than you to take the fall.”

“Huh?”

“Look, even I know Lambert’s good. No way he’s getting voted off any time soon. Hell, that kid’s so good he could probably win the whole damn thing, and then I would have to pay him to have a career!”

“And wouldn’t that suck!” the third man laughed. 

“Don’t I know it? Singing fags, what is the damn world coming to?” 

“So?”

“So, nothing. To get rid of him-- you get rid of him. I got someone to agree to make sure Lambert takes a nice little vacation.”

“Ahhhh.” 

“He disappears for a night or three--” Fuller shrugged. “He’s disqualified.”

“Oh. That would work, yeah.”

The tape froze on Fuller’s face, grinning as he took a sip of his drink. 

de Cowell turned to Fuller, his rage banked to something manageable, a fire that could cleanse. “You bought Gokey’s help with the promise of a title and then you paid to have Lambert abducted, transported and raped for three fucking years, all because you couldn’t stand the thought of a gay American Idol!”

“Adam, please stop…” 

The voice was so familiar and so close, it was a dream, taunting de Cowell with a promise of a home long gone, of a love and sense of safety he would never have again. It cut through the susurrus of confusion coming from the crowd. 

He turned his head. Tommy – his Tommy -- was standing inches away, his mask gone, his hands reaching for de Cowell, tears etched into his too-thin cheeks. 

“Adam… it’s over. You’re home.”

“No.” de Cowell shook his head. “It’ll never be over. Never. They took everything! They took Adam, took everything he had, everything he was! And destroyed him!”

“No, they didn’t. You’re beautiful.”

“No,” de Cowell said, fighting back the tears. “No. Adam was beautiful. Adam was everything. I’m nothing. I can’t bring him back, but I can make them pay for what they did to him.” de Cowell reached a hand out to the apparition standing before him “What they did to you.”

“No, Adam… No. This isn’t right. This isn’t you. This isn’t…”

“They took my voice!” de Cowell howled, his voice splintering at the end. 

“I’m so sorry.” Tommy said, one hand on de Cowell’s cheek. 

“They broke me. They broke Adam.”

“No, they didn’t. He’s still here.”

de Cowell shook his head. “Adam died in Amsterdam.”

“Don’t do this. Don’t let them win.”

“He’s dead.” 

“No, he’s not.” 

That was another voice de Cowell remembered. It filled him with an ache so deep it made him cry out. He knew that voice. 

“My baby’s not dead. I’m looking at him right now.”

de Cowell raised his head and looked into the eyes of his mother. 

“Adam… honey… “

“Mom?”

“Tell them, Adam,” Tommy whispered.

de Cowell shook his head, tears falling unheeded. “Nothing to tell… Adam’s dead.”

“No, he’s not.” Tommy touched the tears on de Cowell’s cheek, pressing them into his skin. “He’s right here,” he whispered. “And we’re,” Tommy looked over at Leila Lambert and then back to de Cowell, “we’re right here with you.”

de Cowell pulled Tommy to him and buried his head in Tommy’s neck, fighting against tears. 

“He died in that hell. He wasn’t strong enough. He failed you.”

“No. He didn’t fail me. He was strong. So strong.” Tommy whispered and it felt as if the whole world disappeared. It was only Tommy holding de Cowell close, Tommy’s lips against his ear as he spoke. “He still is. He’s right here with me. You need to tell Gokey and Fuller. You need to tell all of them.” 

“No,” de Cowell sobbed. He wanted to believe Tommy, but it was too hard. 

Tommy pushed de Cowell’s head up and looked him in the eyes. “You can do this. You’ve made it this far.”

“What the hell is going on?!” Gokey shouted, pulling at his restraints. 

“Tell them the truth, Adam,” Tommy whispered to de Cowell, his hands soft on de Cowell’s face. “Tell them for me. Please.” 

de Cowell looked at Tommy again. 

Tommy was crying and smiling and nodding. “Set us both free.” 

de Cowell nodded back then he took a deep breath before turning to face Gokey and Fuller. “You’ve lost, Danny.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Adam Lambert wasn’t shot that night in Amsterdam.” 

A wave of confusion and shock went through the hall. 

“He didn’t die three years ago.”

de Cowell felt Tommy squeeze his hand. He took strength from that even as fear clawed his breath away. Fear and rage and a hate so strong he could barely contain it. He’d planned to let his hate burn him alive, but now looking at the man before him he understood that to die now, to destroy himself in the flames of Gokey’s annihilation was letting the monsters win one last battle. And that he would never, ever, allow. 

On the opposite side of de Cowell from Tommy, Leila Lambert stretched out her hand. de Cowell took it in his own, and holding his mother’s and Tommy’s hands, de Cowell faced down his nightmare. 

He took a deep breath, looked Daniel Gokey in the face and proclaimed, “I am Adam Lambert.”


	11. Part Three: Coming Home

> BBC New World Edition  
>  Monday May 13, 2013
> 
> Somaly Mam Foundation and two other organizations dedicated to supporting survivors of human trafficking receive working grants.
> 
>  
> 
> International Sanctuary , the Somaly Mam Foundation, and Zoe Children’s Homes each received the first ever one million euro operational grant from Phoenix Fire Industries. According to the announcement made this morning by Mitchel de Cowell, the Count de Cowell, the goal of these three-year grants is to enable organizations to support survivors of human sexual trafficking in reestablishing their existences in a post-slavery life. 
> 
> A total of thirteen organizations submitted proposals for this round of funding, according to de Cowell. He added that it is his hope to be able to expand the grant distribution in years to come and help other organizations in need. 

Chapter eleven  
Adam Lambert / Mitchel de Cowell, the Count de Cowell  
Early morning, Sunday, May 18, 2014

 

de Cowell sat on the floor of his bedroom in the LA apartment, arms wrapped around his knees, back pressed against the bed, just staring at a design on the rug. His costume was piled on a chair by the bathroom. All the trappings of the night stripped away.

In the shower he’d spent a long time scrubbing the make up off his face and the product out of his hair, longer than he probably should have, as memory after memory washed over him. His skin still prickled around his eyes and his scalp hurt but there was no sign of eyeliner and his hair felt truly clean. Afterwards he’d dug in his drawers for the oldest pair of sleep pants he could find and slipped those on with a t-shirt. It was like the things he used to wear as Adam.

_Before._

He felt almost comfortable.

He’d stared at himself in the mirror for a long time trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what he was remembering. Flashes of the past kept bursting across his thoughts, evenings in the Idol mansion, afternoons at his apartment with Tommy. Those days and nights of lounging around had been relaxed and comfortable. Nothing to worry about except how to pay his bills, what song to sing or what to wear clubbing. He couldn’t remember the last time in recent memory that he’d just lounged around; the last time he’d felt relaxed.

He didn’t feel like Adam. Not the Adam they all remembered. He didn’t feel like Mitchel. If he were honest with himself, he’d never really believed that he was Mitchel. It was just a name he’d accepted because he couldn’t stand to be called Adam, couldn’t bear what that name had come to mean. But to hundreds of people he was Mitchel de Cowell, the Count de Cowell. He sort of felt like the Count, he’d worn that costume long enough. Maybe it was that the Count had always been a costume worn over ‘Mitchel’ and over the ‘Adam’ that he had hidden away. He knew it, knew the character and what was expected of him.

There were too many thoughts, too many names, too many people he was supposed to be and couldn’t be.

He’d turned away from the mirror then, collapsing in a heap on the floor by his bed.

He’d had it all planned out. The gala was supposed to have been his final act. He had planned to take his enemies down and follow them into hell and that would be the end. No more pain, no more questions, no more wondering who the fuck he was now. But it didn’t work that way. The ground had opened up at his feet. He’d been so close to stepping over the edge, and Tommy –his beautiful Tommy, and his mother, oh his mother, had been there holding out their hands, waiting to catch him. To keep him from falling.

Now what? What was he supposed to do now? Who was he now?

“Adam?” de Cowell twitched at the name, but the voice was music to his ears, Leila Lambert- his mother… _his mother_ called from the door. “May I come in?”

de Cowell scrubbed at the tears on his face and pushed off the floor, turning to face her. “Of course.”

She shook her head. “There’s no ‘of course’ about any of this. I can go if you want--“

“No, you don’t ne- um. Thank you. It’s fine.” He smoothed out the fabric of his sleep pants then waved to the chairs by the window. “Please.”

“Thank you.” Leila settled into the closest chair and watched him as he took the other. “Are you… Well, not okay, I suppose, but-“ She sighed. “How are you?”

de Cowell gripped his hands together in his lap, completely out of his depth. There was no protocol for him to fall back on in this situation, nothing to tell him how to deal with the woman across from him.

“Honestly?”

Leila nodded. “If you can? If that’s okay? I know we haven’t seen each other in a long time, but- I-”

de Cowell nodded. “You’re Adam’s mother.” He saw the tears fill Leila’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I just… I-“

“No.” She put a hand up to stop him. “I’m sorry. You’ve been through so much, I shouldn’t expect things to be the way they were.”

“If it helps, it’s not you that I’m having difficulty with. Can you understand that?”

“I do. I think. No, I do.” She sniffed and nodded. “Mostly? Can you, explain? At all?”

de Cowell took a fortifying breath. “It’s the name. I couldn’t stand the sound of it, of that– of,” he stopped, took another breath and forced himself to continue, “of my name, Adam, for a very long time. They, the people who owned me, used it against me. They- you don’t want to know this.”

“No. I don’t want to know that someone nearly broke my son. That they hurt him for years. But he- You,” she pressed a hand to his cheek. “You lived it, so I _need_ to know. Please?”

de Cowell leaned his face into her hand and let himself feel the warmth of her touch. Tears came, soft and quiet, rolling down his cheek and over her fingers.

“I was sold to an organization in San Francisco. At first I resisted, pretty much daily. It was terrible. The things they did to try and convince me to work. But you always did say I was stubborn.”

Leila smiled.

“Those people sold me over seas. I found out later that I was too much of a risk to keep, between my name and my attitude, so I was sold to a sex slave ring in Spain and then later to another one in Amsterdam.”

“Oh, god,” Leila whispered, dropping her hand down to his and twining their fingers together.

“I was still pretty stubborn.” He coughed, stalling, trying to figure out how to tell his mother what she wanted to know without telling her too much, except, it was all too much. “Eventually they just force-fed me and the other guys cocaine and Viagra so that we would work.”

“Work?”

“Sex,” he said forcing himself to keep eye contact with Leila. “We had 20 to 30… clients,” he spit the word out, “a day, sometimes more.”

“Oh my god, Adam, Adam-“

“Just- listen, please? You said you needed to know. Just listen or I can’t-“

“Okay. Okay. I promise.”

de Cowell nodded. “They started out slower the first few weeks. Getting me used to it, I guess, teaching me not to fight the drugs and the routine. I was… beaten, a lot. But then I guess… I got smart?” He shrugged. “I did what I was told to do. They added more… clients… more johns more… fucks. And that was what we did. Day and night. We. I… I was just a- hole. A thing to be used. It was…I was… It wasn’t-”

He pulled his fingers out of Leila’s grip and clenched his hands together until his knuckles went white, pushing away the agony of the memories. Leila placed her hands over his, lightly, so very gentle like she used to when he was a child and upset. She just held her hands there in silence, watching his face. He swallowed through his anger and nodded, accepting her comfort and her strength.

“I had to do it. I had to become what they wanted. Do the… the job. It was what kept me alive. They made it very clear that they would kill us if we didn’t work or if the clients complained.

“Then one day everything changed. They started treating me nice, doing things for me, making me feel special. Dyed my hair and did my make-up. Even brought me new clothes with rhinestones and leather boots.” He laughed bitterly. “I thought maybe something had happened. That they’d changed their minds or I don’t know... I knew it was crazy but I just wanted it so much. I got my hopes up. I thought… I thought they were going to let me go.”

de Cowell shivered.

“But they didn’t?”

“No. They sold me to the highest bidder. Sold ‘Adam Lambert’.” He looked at Leila, at Adam’s mother, his mother, and watched her process his words. Watched and waited for the moment realization hit. Her eyes went wide with horror. Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

“After that… every fuck was as him. Dressed up like a puppet. They made me sing his songs while they … used me. They beat me if I stopped and when my voice gave out. They dressed me up to look and sound like the man who’d gotten me abducted, beaten, raped and sold in the first place.”

Leila was shaking her head back and forth, her eyes screaming denial. A part of de Cowell’s brain was telling him to stop, that she didn’t deserve his anger, but it was too late.

“I hated him. Hated Adam Lambert and everything he ever stood for or did to me. I hated the name. I hated the way he looked, the way he dressed, the way he talked. I hated his fucking voice. It was all because of him and what he stood for that I was abducted!”

“No, no…,” Leila begged. “Adam, you… he was beautiful and precious. And your voice,” he flinched away from her. “Adam’s voice was priceless. His voice is _your_ voice,” she insisted.

“No.”

“Yes! I can still hear you, Adam! Even through the pain and the roughness of what they did to you, to your throat. I can still hear your beautiful voice.”

“It’s gone. They took it from me!” he cried, his hated voice cracking as it rose in volume. He’d tried so hard to believe his voice would come back, that they hadn’t destroyed it completely. All of Simon’s doctors had sworn it would just take time and hard work but he couldn’t believe them. He knew the difference; he could feel it. His voice was gone. They’d broken him.

“No.” Her eyes flashed, and this was the woman he remembered, the one who could get between two squabbling teenage boys and stop them in their tracks, who could scare a man six inches taller than her with a look, and who had pushed him to get back on stage when he was so tired he wanted to cry.

“They tried to. Just like they tried to use your name and your dreams against you. But your voice was more than your ability to sing.” She grabbed his hands as he tried to pull away. “Your voice, your power, the reason you sang, the reason people were voting for you in the first place, it was because of your heart and your soul. You had something to say about the world and people and life and love and you did it with your voice, through music. But music isn’t all there ever was or will be to you.”

“That’s all Adam was! A pretty voice and a good fuck!”

“Don’t you dare say that about my son! Adam is – You- are more than that. Look at everything you’ve accomplished since these people found you.”

de Cowell raised an eyebrow at Leila.

“Your people love you. They have been to the pit of hell for you and come back out stronger each time. And they would do it again. You are making a difference in the world with Phoenix Fire Industries.”

de Cowell started to speak but Leila cut him off.

“Don’t. I know that you took Simon de Cowell’s company and turned it into the giant corporation it is today. Sophie might not have been willing to tell me who you really were, but she told me who Mitchel de Cowell was and what he’d been doing for the last two years.”

“Mitchel doesn’t talk much,” de Cowell said quietly.

Leila put a hand under his chin and pressed up, forcing him to look at her. “Maybe it’s time he did.”

“You don’t know what it was like…” de Cowell was shaking, memories racing through his muscles, choking him. Blinding him. Things he’d hidden away were screaming to be let out. “I begged them to stop. Over and over again.”

de Cowell slipped out of his chair and fell on to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest.

“Every day. Every day they came, Mom. And they wouldn’t stop. I cried so much. I’d close my eyes and wish I was home, wish that you could find me, that it would all stop. Just stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.”

He felt his mother sit on the floor beside him. She tugged him toward her and he sank into her embrace, the part of him that was Adam wanting her comfort so much. Then the part of him that was Mitchel jerked up and away. His memories screaming at him that he shouldn’t let go, that it wasn’t safe. Leila held on, though, holding him as he struggled with himself. He didn’t want to be alone any more. He was tired of being cold all the time. After a moment he stopped fighting and let his mother pull him back against her chest, her arms holding him after too fucking long.

“Oh god, Mom,” he sobbed. “It hurt so much. So fucking much. Night after night after night. I begged and pleaded. I tried to be good. But it was never enough. Never. I just wanted to go home.”

Adam wept against his mother’s shoulder. He let her rock him while he cried, gut-wrenching tears that he’d been fighting against since the night he’d been set free. He clutched his mother’s arms and held on for dear life, crying for everything he’d lost, for the dreams the slavers had taken away and all the people they’d hurt to keep him in line. He cried until his voice shattered and his shirt was soaking wet. There were tears in his hair from his mother as well, both of them crying for the five years of each other’s lives that they’d missed.

“You’re home, baby. You’re safe.”

He shook his head. He didn’t know what home looked like any more.

“Look at me, Adam.” Leila sat up and tugged him up to face her. “Do you remember what I said when your father and I got divorced?”

“Um--"

“You will always have a home no matter where you live, because you have people who love you. Your father, me, Neil, those people out there. You’ve created a new family and a new home.”

“I’m so tired.”

“I know, I know. You don’t have to do any of this alone. You have so much help. So much love around you, you just need to open your heart and see it.”

“Mom?”

“I’m here, baby. I’ve got you. I love you so much.”

“Mom... I’m so scared. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know-“

“Shhhh, I know.”

“I had everything worked out to the smallest detail, and it all worked perfectly. But…”

“You had no plan for today? Or tomorrow?” Leila offered.

Adam shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “No, I didn’t.”

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out together.”

Adam clung to his mother, not crying now, more breathing in the smell and feel of her, making sure she was real.

“You’re really here?” he finally asked because he needed to know.

She nodded. “I’m really here, and so are you. You’re home, sweetie. You’re home.”

“Oh god,” Adam whispered. “Home.”

Leila hugged him. “Yeah.”

Finally Adam sat back. He scrubbed at his face with the back of his hand and chuckled. “This wasn’t how I planned to spend tonight.”

His mother smiled and brushed at her own tear-streaked face. “No, I don’t imagine it is. You ready to celebrate a little?

Adam took a deep breath. “I suppose.”

“Come on,” Leila said, standing up and offering him a hand. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

~*~

Adam and Leila entered the living room to find most of his friends and family in various states of collapse in the large and well-appointed room. There was a fire glowing softly in the central hearth, not really necessary given the warmth of the season, but comforting. Most of the lights were off or set low and there was something soft and jazzy playing on the stereo.

Lee and Xander looked like puddles of exhaustion on one of the love seats. Lee had taken off his jacket and tie and was nursing a glass of amber liquid. Xander was even less reserved; he’d taken off his shoes as well.

Lee raised his glass when he saw Adam and started to rise. Adam waved him off and Lee sank back into the blue and green patterned cushions with a sigh.

Terrance was curled up against Andre, both also jacketless, eyes closed, fingers entwined and resting on the back of the couch they’d claimed. Terrance held a bottle of beer in his free hand, Andre a glass of what was probably club soda.

Sophie and Isaac looked like a mirror image of Terrance and Andre, nestled together at the other end of the same couch, Sophie’s head on Isaac’s shoulder, Isaac’s fingers carding through her curls. Isaac looked up and nodded at Adam, one eyebrow raised in question. Adam smiled and shook his head. He had other people to speak to first. Isaac nodded then kissed Sophie as she stirred. He whispered something to her and she settled back against his chest.

In the far corner between the fireplace and one of the French doors that opened out onto the pitch-black terrace, the Lambert men were standing huddled together looking lost.

“Dad,” Adam said holding his hand out to his father.

Eber looked so odd, all dressed up in a tuxedo. He still had his jacket on, almost like a shield, his bowtie was black and perfectly tied, nothing like the laidback hippy Adam remembered. Eber looked at Adam, his eyes wide. There was so much there: pain and loss, grief and hope. Adam wanted to look away, wanted to run from it all but he made himself stand still and let his father drink in the sight of his son – reborn.

With a sob, Eber took Adam’s hand and pulled him into a bruising hug.

“I thought you were dead. Oh, god.”

Adam went stiff at first, then forced himself to relax and hug Eber back. He’d missed his father so much, the feeling of being safe in Eber’s big arms where no one could touch him, no one could hurt him. His dad had always been there to defend him and coach him through the hard times, and yet now- it felt strange to have Eber hold him again after everything that had happened.

“It’s okay. I’m alive,” Adam said, through his tears.

Eber nodded, squeezed Adam’s shoulders, and then stepped back.

Adam turned to Neil. Unlike their father, he’d gotten rid of his tuxedo jacket and had one hand at his tie, loosening the gray silk. Neil’s face was a mask of indifference, but Adam could feel the grief and anger boiling underneath. He opened his arms and held on as his little brother fell into his embrace. Neil buried his face in Adam’s neck and cried.

“It’s okay, Neil.”

Neil pulled away, wiping his face on his sleeve. “If you _ever_ pull that shit on me again, so help me…”

“Don’t worry, no more unplanned trips.”

“There’d better not be--”

“Neil,” Leila warned, cutting him off.

“Fine,” Neil huffed at their mother.

“I promise, you can bitch me out as much as you want, later,” Adam said. Neil raised an eyebrow, not buying it. Adam wasn’t surprised. He’d never given Neil a free pass on an argument in their lives. Ever. “Just this once. Consider it payment for all the arguments I owe you.”

Neil stared a moment longer. “Deal.”

Adam looked at the woman standing next to Neil and held out his hand. “You must be Melinda.”

The woman nodded her head with a nervous smile. She was wearing a long dress with a shear skirt that hung in tight pleats from a form fitted bodice. The dress was in shades of a deep gray, the main one matching Neil’s tie. On the couch beside her were two masks of gray and white feathers. They had been dressed as owls, if Adam remembered the costumer’s plans correctly. Melinda tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind one ear, looked and Neil and back, then took Adam’s hand. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry I missed the wedding, but I expect mom has a ton of pictures to show me.”

Melinda smiled softly and Leila laughed.

“Wait till I tell you about your brother and the cummerbund!”

“Mom!” Neil groaned.

Adam smiled. “I can’t wait. I want to hear about all of it.”

“I look forward to telling you about it,” Melinda said with a more confident smile. She looped her arm through Neil’s and pressed a kiss to his cheek. They were very nearly the same height, Adam noticed, and the look in Melinda’s eyes as she grinned at her husband made Adam think that Neil had met his match in more ways than one. Neil rolled his eyes but Adam could tell he was happy.

Adam looked around the room, trying to find the woman who had accompanied his father to the gala.

“Where’s Elizabeth?”

Eber looked at Leila then at his feet. “She went home.”

Adam looked at his mother who shrugged. Eber looked up and sighed.

“She came with me as a favor, as a friend, and when everything went south, well—she offered to get a cab home.”

“You didn’t,” Adam said.

“He didn’t,” Lee put in, his head just barely lifting up from the back of the couch, one hand in the air to make his point. “I had Antone drive her.”

“Thank you,” Adam and Eber both said.

“Where’s Tommy?” Adam asked, not seeing him anywhere in the room.

“He was here earlier,” Lee said.

“He’s in the guest room,” Terrance answered, sitting up a bit in Andre’s arms. “He needed some time to himself after everything that’s happened.”

“Oh.” Adam had been looking forward to seeing Tommy again. He needed to thank him and apologize, and just talk. “Is he alright?”

Terrance shrugged. “You’ve been free for two years. He’s been out from under Gokey’s thumb for a few hours.”

“Right. I guess I should leave him be…”

Terrance raised an eyebrow. “Did you want to be on your own that first night?”

“No.” Adam shook his head, remembering that first evening all too well. “I spent the night wrapped in blankets in your bed with Isaac and Sophie hovering around the edges.”

“So?”

Adam nodded. “So, I’ll go find him.”

“Good.” Terrance smiled and sank back into Andre’s embrace. Andre nodded at Adam before kissing the side of Terrance’s head and wrapping his arms around him. Andre would see Terrance through the memories that tonight had brought up. Now it was time for Adam to help Tommy.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter twelve  
Tommy Ratliff, musician   
Early morning, Sunday, May 18, 2014

 

Tommy pressed his head into the thick green curtains and looked through the window at the trees in the garden. Even in the darkness he could tell that they were heavy with leaves and flowers and the first buds of something Tommy assumed would turn into fruit. They were all shadowed and oddly shaped this late at night. Or was it early in the morning? Tommy had no idea of time any more, but they were still pretty. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a tree from this angle, almost up close. He wanted to go outside and touch the leaves just to feel them with his own hands, relearn what real flowers, still living and uncut, unplanned, unforced, smelled like. But he didn’t. 

He was afraid. His brain was filled with rules and consequences. Leaving the room, leaving the apartment meant pain. He’d done more than leave the apartment. He’d left Danny.

He’d left. Danny. 

“Fuck.”

Tommy fell into the chair next to him and shivered. He was cold even in the sweatpants and t-shirt Terrance had found for him. He pulled his feet up under him and tucked his toes under his thighs. His hair was still wet from the shower, his skin soft with soap he’d chosen from the collection in the bathroom. He’d picked the unscented body wash because he could. Because Danny wasn’t there to tell him to smell like some flower or fruit Danny could eat. 

Danny.

Tommy’d done it. He’d left. He’d actually gotten away from Danny, from the hell that Danny had built around him. That he’d let Danny build. That he’d agreed to. 

“Oh my god.”

His thoughts came crashing to a halt. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t move. 

He had nothing now. Nowhere to go. No family, no one who would take him back. He’d cut them all off, told them all to fuck off and leave him alone when they didn’t like that he was hanging out with Danny. He hadn’t been able explain things to them. Hadn’t been able explain things to himself. How Danny was safe and kind, even though he would hit Tommy when he got angry. How Danny took care of him, most of the time. How it was so much better being with Danny than being alone. 

There was something important Tommy needed to remember. But his head hurt and it was so hard to breathe. He put a hand to his chest, pressing against the tightness under his skin. 

He was going to be in so much trouble when Danny found him. He’d give him to Burly for a whole day after what Tommy had done this time. Burly wouldn’t stop. He’d laugh and laugh and laugh as he hit Tommy, as he fucked him and hurt him for hours. It wasn’t going to stop this time. 

Danny was going to be so mad. So fucking angry with Tommy. How could Tommy have done that? How could he have left? He knew what Danny was like. He knew that Danny was just trying to protect him,

 _No!_ Tommy told himself. Danny wasn’t protecting him. Danny was hurting him. Using him. 

What was he supposed to remember? 

Danny had said so many times that Tommy didn’t know how to take care of himself, that he couldn’t live on his own and hadn’t that been true? Tommy hadn’t been able to pay his bills before or keep a job. He was bad at everything. A bad musician, a bad boyfriend, a bad fuck. 

“NO!” Tommy pushed off the chair. It toppled over on its side and Tommy froze, frightened that someone -- that Danny -- might have heard. “No,” he whispered. “No. I’m safe. I’m free.”

But he was shaking, trembling from the inside out. There was no safe. There was no free. 

It was so hard to breathe, so hard to think. 

Danny owned him. Danny would kill him inch by inch after Burly was done with him. There was no getting out now. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run to. Nowhere that was safe. He was trapped. Locked in hell forever. 

The room spun, green drapes bleeding to black as his vision wavered and twisted. The posts of the bed grew limbs that reached toward him. He backed away, desperate to get out of their reach. The sound of the wind picked up, banging the trees against the window becoming voices calling to Tommy, cursing him, cutting him down and rolling over him in waves of sound that dropped him to his knees. 

“No! Stop! Please. I’m sorry!” He begged. The walls of the room closed in around him, pressing down until there was no room to move, no room to think, no air to breathe. 

He had to get out. Get away. Nowhere was safe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stay.

Tommy choked on a sob. 

He scrambled to his feet and ran for the door. He needed to run, to hide. He needed to find some way to make the horrible pressure in his head and the noise in his blood stop. 

He pulled it open and screamed. 

Adam was standing on the other side of the door.

Adam was dead. Danny had told him that. Told him while he laughed. “Your pretty boy’s dead. Got himself killed last night, or so my friends tell me.” He’d pulled Tommy’s head back and shoved his dick down Tommy’s throat. “Died getting his ass fucked for some rich dude. Ran right away from you, slut.”

Adam was dead. 

Except that Adam was standing in front of him looking clean and fresh and beautiful. Looking so much like he had the last night Tommy had seen him. 

“Tommy. Are you okay?” Adam asked, his face a mix of emotions. “I was… just coming to see… you-“

Tommy burst out laughing. Adam of all people was asking him if he was okay. How could he be okay? Adam was a ghost come back to haunt him now that he was alone. Tommy stumbled back, laughter mixing with sobs, his whole body shaking. He felt his head move back and forth, felt the words tumbling out of his mouth, “No. No. No. Not okay, never okay.”

He looked back. Adam’s ghost – so solid and real, was reaching for him. 

“No!” he cried and fled to the other side of the room. 

“Tommy?” Adam’s ghost said. His voice sounded so sad, so lost, almost as lost as Tommy felt. He looked so real. So alive. He followed Tommy to the window, held his hands out, placating, not touching, just- hovering, waiting. “Tommy it’s okay… I understand, really I do.”

“You can’t understand. You’re dead. Danny said so.” Tommy started to cry. 

“No, Tommy, I’m not. Don’t you remember?”

Adam’s ghost reached for Tommy. Tommy jerked away, moving out of reach so fast he fell to the floor. He kicked at the tangling vines made up of carpet and fear, scrambling as far away from the ghost as he could get. He backed into something, water and flowers fell, drenching him as the table tried to capture him in its legs. 

He couldn’t remember anything.

“You’re not real,” Tommy shouted, hands over his eyes and ears. “You can’t be. You’re dead. You left me and you died!”

Adam’s ghost froze in place. 

“You left me!” Tommy kept shouting. Maybe if he screamed loud enough and long enough the ghost would go away. Stop tormenting him, making him wish for something he couldn’t ever have again. “You left, and I had nothing! Nothing but fake promises and hollow memories. Danny promised he would take care of me. He said you were dead and he would keep me safe.” Tommy choked on the word then laughed. “Safe. You said we would be together. We could be safe together. But you lied. You left me and died and you… Lied!” 

There was a glass vase in Tommy’s hand, from the table that was tipped over, its precious flowers scattered on the soaked carpet. He threw the vase at the ghost and screamed in one long continuous stream of pain and heartbreak. Then he collapsed, caving in on himself, spent and lost. Too tired to fight ghosts or ex-lovers or Danny’s bullies who were going to drag him away at any moment. 

“Oh, Tommy,” Adam’s ghost whispered. He was crouched close beside Tommy. His hands carding through Tommy’s hair, petting him just like Adam used to do so long ago. “I’m so sorry. So, so sorry.

“I didn’t want to leave you, I swear. I never ever wanted to leave.”

“But you did,” Tommy said, his voice flat and resigned. 

“I know. 

“I didn’t….” Tommy shook his head, the secret pressing against his lips. He wanted to explain, tell how it had been his fault. He wanted to make things right. Maybe Adam’s ghost would keep his secret. “Can I… can I tell you something? You promise you won’t tell anyone. Ever?”

“Of course, Tommy. Of course.”

“Promise.” Tommy gripped the ghost’s hand. The ghost held on and gripped back, giving him a nod. 

“I promise.”

Tommy bit his lip and closed his eyes. He could do this. Before Danny found him. Before Burly killed him, he could tell one person the worst thing he’d ever done. His secret. 

“That night, five years ago, when you and I fought… I’m so sorry. It was all my fault. I didn’t mean to make you angry. I didn’t want you to go. I’m so sorry I made you leave.”

“What? Tommy, no! You didn’t make me go. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did. I was the reason you left. That you left the show, left me, all of it.”

“No, Tommy. No. Why would you think that?”

Tommy shook his head, confused. He knew what he’d done. He’d denied Adam everything. He’d turned him down, made him angry, and Adam had walked away from his dreams, walked away from Tommy and everything. It had all been Tommy’s fault. 

“Danny told me. He said you left because of me.”

The ghost’s face went white, his eyes became huge and his mouth dropped open before he started chanting, “No. No. No.”

Tommy looked up at Adam’s ghost. Even upset at Tommy’s secret, his face was as beautiful as always, vibrant blue eyes staring down at him with so much sorrow it made Tommy’s heart hurt. He reached a hand up, stroked across the surprisingly warm cheekbone. There were scars there, differences on the surface from what he remembered but the ghost still looked like Adam, not that Count who had kissed him ages ago. 

“I wish I’d been strong like you,” Tommy whispered. He was so tired. “We could have died together.”

“Tommy, listen to me. Tommy!” The ghost pulled Tommy up into his arms. Tommy blinked, his world shifting as his body was moved. The vines in the carpet released their grip on his legs, the walls of the room pulled back and there was air for him to breathe. “Tommy, remember earlier this evening? Can you do that? Can you remember back to the party? To the gala?”

Tommy put a hand out to stop the ghost from shaking him and met flesh. He looked down and watched as his fingers stroked across a freckle covered arm. The colors in the room shifted and lightened. The greens resettled to their original hues, the bed to its original limbless form. The body holding him was warm. Solid. Real underneath his hand. He took a deep breath, then another one. The party. Adam. Adam was real. Adam had been at the gala. Adam was the Count. 

Tommy’s mind fractured and reformed.

He looked down at his shaking hands, they were clean, no blood or dirt on them. He looked back up, into Adam’s beautiful blue eyes.

“The gala for Danny?”

“Yes. Do you remember what happened at the end? You helped me.”

“Helped you?” Images from earlier in the night flashed through Tommy’s mind: Danny in a gold suit, the Count – Adam – in copper and flames, the security guy, Terrance offering to help him.

“Yes. Come on Tommy. Breathe. I know how hard this is. I know how much your world has just changed, but it’s okay. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“Alone.” Tommy flinched. “Don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not. I promise.”

Tommy shook his head. “No. No. Danny will find me! Danny swore that if I ever left, ever tried to leave, he would find me-“

“He won’t!”

“He will!” Terror gripped Tommy, cut off his air, trapped him back in the penthouse. 

“I know it feels that way. I know. I do.”

Tommy pushed at Adam, struggling to get away, but Adam held on. “You don’t! You weren’t there! You can’t know!”

“I do. Oh god, Tommy, I do. I wish I didn’t but… I do. I was held, just like you. Terrorized. Beaten and threatened every day. I know what it feels like. I know how fucking scary it is to walk away and try to believe that it’s over.”

“It’s not. It’ll never be over,” Tommy whispered. 

“It is over. You’re free. I promise.”

“Free?”

Adam nodded. “Free.”

Tommy stared at Adam. “Free.”

Adam smiled. “Yeah.”

“I don’t know… how… to be… free.”

“I know, Tommy, I do. I didn’t know either. But I’ll help you, if you’ll let me? If you want me to?”

“You will?”

“Of course. I love you so much, Tommy. I’m so sorry I didn’t trust you all those years ago. That I couldn’t let you have the space you needed to breathe and to find your way. I’m so sorry.”

“But I hurt you. I sent you away.”

“No, you didn’t,” Adam said, cutting Tommy off when he started to speak. “I know what Danny told you. I know about the lies, but _you_ did nothing wrong.”

“But I --"

“You didn’t know what you wanted, and I pushed you when I shouldn’t have. I was wrong. And I was mad. But you didn’t make me leave. Danny did that. _Danny and Fuller_ had me abducted so I would be disqualified. Remember?”

Tommy looked away, trying to remember everything he’d heard throughout the night. He didn’t know what to do when he found the memory -- remembered watching Fuller in the video, crowing about his plan to abduct Adam. “You didn’t leave me?”

“No.” Adam smiled. It was heartbreaking, filled with sadness and joy, and Tommy wanted to melt into it. “I dreamt about you every night. Prayed that you were happy. That you would remember me.”

“I did. I dreamt about you, too. About you finding me. Forgiving me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“What I did--" Tommy pleaded. “What he made me believe… that I… “

Adam pulled Tommy to his chest and pressed his lips to his cheek, right beside his ear. “I forgive you, Tommy. I forgive you. I swear, I didn’t leave you. It wasn’t your fault. I promise.”

Tommy let the tears go, crying for everything he’d lost, everything he’d given over to Danny thinking he had nowhere else to go, no one else to love him. He cried for what he’d lost and what he’d almost lost. And he cried for himself and for Adam, because he finally could. 

Ages later, Adam brushed back Tommy’s hair and kissed his forehead. “Come on,” he said, pushing to his feet. He held out his hand for Tommy. 

Tommy swiped at the tears on his cheeks with the back of his hand and looked up. “Where?” 

“I don’t know about you, but it’s been five long years since I’ve slept in the same bed as someone I love.”

Tommy twitched. He couldn’t. A bed meant sex and pain and Danny would find out. But, he reminded himself, Danny was no longer his problem. Adam had taken care of that. 

Adam must have seen something of Tommy’s fear because he shook his head.

“Just sleep, Tommy. I promise. I just… I miss you.”

“Sleep.” Tommy nodded his head. He could do that. To sleep in Adam’s arms after so long? That sounded a little like heaven. Tommy took Adam’s hand and let him help him to his feet. “Sleep is good.”

Tommy slid under the velvety-green duvet with a sigh. It was thick and warm and wonderful. And if he just kept reminding himself that Adam was here with him and Danny couldn’t hurt him any longer, he might just make it through the next few days. He really wanted to do that because at the moment he felt better than he had in a long long time. 

Looking over at Adam, Tommy noticed that he was propping up the doorframe with a kind of hyper-vigilance that was at odds with the calm of a moment ago. 

“Um… Adam?… “

Adam’s head popped up. “What?”

“Door? Or Bed?”

Adam chuckled. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”

“S’okay.” Tommy shrugged, tugging the blankets around into more of a nest. “Like you said it’s been a long time. For both of us.”

“Yeah.” 

Adam still didn’t move. 

“What is it?” Tommy didn’t know what had changed. Only moments ago Adam had been the strong one, grounding Tommy, helping him see that the world was safe again. Now he was shivering. Miles away in both mind and body. 

Adam shook his head and dug one bare foot into the carpet. 

“Adam?”

He shook his head then looked up at Tommy. There were tears in his eyes. “I—I’m so sorry, Tommy. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t mean to leave you all alone like that.”

Tommy pushed the covers back and sat up on his knees, leaning toward Adam. “I know that. I understand what happened now.”

“I screwed up so many things, Tommy.”

“What?” Tommy patted at the side of the bed. “Come here.” When Adam refused to move, he did it again. “Come. Here. Please?”

Adam fell away from the door and stumbled to the bed, sinking down next to Tommy without looking at him. Tommy hesitated for a moment, not sure what Adam needed, then placed his hand over one of Adam’s. When Adam didn’t pull away, he gave the fingers under his a little squeeze of encouragement. 

“Okay, what are you talking about?” 

“Everything you’ve been through. What my parents had to deal with. Lee moving to England. All of it, because of me.”

“Now hang on. No. You went through hell. No one asks to be treated the way you and I were. Damn it!”

“But if I’d been here, I could’ve helped you. I could’ve kept you safe. I should have!”

“No! Adam – Look at me.” Tommy placed his hands on Adam’s cheeks cradling his face. When Adam looked up, tears marking his skin, Tommy said, “It’s just like what you said to me. It’s not your fault. Danny and Fuller had this big, horrible plan and they hurt you with it.”

“But if I’d been different. If they hadn’t hated me so much.”

“There is nothing you can do about how people feel about you. You know that. You were trying to teach me that all those years ago.” Tommy was crying again. He didn’t know what he’d do if Adam fell apart. If they were both broken, who would put them back together again? “Don’t this to yourself. Please. Please, Adam.”

Adam reached for Tommy and Tommy went, letting Adam cling to him as Tommy had clung to him earlier. He stroked Adam’s back, running his fingers through the now-dry copper hair – and that would take some getting used to. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s okay,” Tommy whispered. But it wasn’t okay. It hadn’t been okay for Tommy. It wasn’t okay for Adam. Adam believed that he’d been at the core of all the pain for both of them and for their families. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t in fact responsible for what happened, so very far from responsible. He believed. And he’d understood when Tommy had believed the worst thing about himself and he’d forgiven Tommy. 

“Adam,” Tommy said softly, tilting Adam’s head up and off his shoulder. “Adam, look at me, please.”

Adam finally looked up, his eyes glossed over with sorrow. 

“I forgive you, Adam. I forgive you for being at the heart of Danny and Simon’s anger. I forgive you for being human and getting caught in their rage and their cruelty. I know you didn’t mean for me to get hurt. And I know you didn’t mean for your family to get hurt.” 

“Oh, Tommy,” Adam sobbed. 

“It’s okay. I promise.”

Tommy held on while Adam shook under the weight of his release. Five years was a long time to believe that you were the reason so many things went wrong, to hate yourself and the life you’d been thrust into. 

After a time, Adam’s sobs stilled and his body stopped shivering. They sat together, entwined for the first time since their stupid fight back at the Idol taping. It wasn’t perfect. But, Tommy knew, it was so much better than anything either of them could have dreamed of only a few days earlier. 

“Thank you,” Adam whispered into the silence. 

“For what?”

“For believing in me.”

Tommy closed his eyes and refused to give in to tears again. He kissed Adam’s temple. “Always.”

Tommy wriggled back against the pillows, tugging Adam with him as he went. He got them settled under the blankets; Adam’s head cushioned on his chest, and then realized he’d left the light on. Then again, he decided, that was probably for the best. He didn’t think either of them would do well in the dark for a while. He tucked the duvet under Adam’s chin and kissed the crown of his head.

Adam clutched at Tommy’s chest, and Tommy felt the warm press of Adam’s lips through his t-shirt. It made his heart hurt. It was good and scary all at once. Tommy never wanted it to stop. 

“Thank you for finding me,” Tommy whispered.

“Always,” Adam replied. “Always.”


	13. Epilogue

Adam Lambert is back!  
Entertainment Tonight, February 10, 2016

Adam Lambert is back and not just as a British Count. This time, he’s back singing and better than ever. That’s the news spreading all across the world this week as word of Lambert’s brand new album leaked to radio stations throughout Europe on Monday. 

London’s Captial FM Radio was the first to play the new track titled “Finding you” from former American Idol contestant Adam Lambert. BBC Radio One and fifteen other stations in Europe have reported receiving a copy of the single. 

The controversy surrounding Lambert’s disappearance intensified last year when American Idol season eight winner Daniel Gokey and American Idol Co-Creator and Executive Producer Simon Fuller were found guilty of kidnapping, trafficking of an individual for illegal sex trade, and promotion of human trafficking in the Lambert case. Gokey was subsequently stripped of his title and is now serving 20 years without parole in a federal prison. Fuller, who was indicted on an additional charge of fraud in the Lambert case, and on charges of child endangerment, child pornography and child sexual abuse in an unrelated case brought by the City and County of Los Angeles, is serving 30 years to life. 

After those harrowing days of trial hearings and interviews when we were all witness to the devastating change in Lambert’s voice, many believed that the Idol fan favorite would never sing again. Lambert himself was quoted at the time as being uncertain if he would be able to regain the strength and power that he had had prior to his ordeal. 

Well all of that has changed! While many have noted over the past year that the Lambert’s speaking voice is noticeably deeper and darker sounding than it was in 2009, we can assure fans that his singing voice is as strong as ever! 

“Hearing that voice again, it was like something out of a dream,” says Capital Radio DJ Rich Clarke. “No one believed that we would hear it again. We really thought the world had lost something special. I mean I know [Adam] hadn’t won by the time he disappeared, and you can’t really know what someone is going to turn out like with a show like Idol, but he was just so damn good.” BBC Radio One DJ Chris Moyles agrees. “Adam was amazing. When you heard him sing, you just couldn’t believe your ears and then to hear what happened to his voice. It was just terrible. I’m glad he’s back. The new track is hot! His voice is clear and powerful. It’s deeper, sure, but just as amazing.”

No word yet on a release date or title for the full album, but if this single is anything to go by, it will be something for the record books. We here at ET are thrilled to hear that such a talented singer has returned to excellent form and we can’t wait for more from our favorite American Idol. 

On March 13, 2016, two hundred and fifty handwritten invitations went into the mail requesting the presence of friends and family at a private event in two month’s time.

The party was to be a celebration of love held on the grounds of the de Cowell estate in Northumberland, England. The two men at the heart of the party had decided it was time to honor both their commitment to each other and the love of the people who helped make sure they were alive and happy. They had been to the gates of hell and back and could still see beauty in the world. That, as everyone around them could attest, was nothing short of miraculous. Finding each other and love at the end of their battles was truly a gift they savored. 

Each gold-lined invitation was received with great joy by the people who loved and cared for them. Plans were made, tickets purchased for the flights to England, dresses and suits acquired for the various parties involved. Flowers ordered, menus set and entertainments arranged for the guests who arrived early. Family members who’d never been to Europe looked with wide-eyed wonder at the beauty of Northumberland in the spring. And everywhere they turned, friends and family saw the smiling faces of the men they loved. 

Word leaked beyond the manor gates, as they all knew it would. Reporters and photographers flocked to the de Cowell estate hoping for a glimpse of the singer who had been missing for so long and the man who had won his heart. Their family and friends closed ranks and kept the gates closed, holding back the inevitable just a little longer. They all had agreed that once the wedding was complete, the honeymoon enjoyed and the new album officially announced, the couple would break their silence. Until then, everyone from the wedding couple to the families to the extra staff hired for the parties basked in their self-imposed silence. 

On the night before his wedding, Adam Mitchel Terrance Isaac Lambert de Cowell, the Count de Cowell was asleep with his fiancé Thomas Joseph Ratliff wrapped close to his heart. It was a restful sleep for both men, something they had fought long and hard for. If at times one or the other of them still cried out in the night, the other was there to hold him and remind him that the past was simply the past and that they were carving out a future together that did not include slavery or brutality. 

May 13th held many bitter memories for both men. Now, after much thought and not a few arguments, they were planning to create a new and more joyful memory. That thought should make them happy. 

It did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story, like [“all you feel is…” ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/154062/chapters/221183%20/) deals with trauma and its consequences. Where the first story was always going to be about getting through pain in positive ways even though it hurt and was difficult, this one was always about the other side, the dark side if you will. 
> 
> As I said in the opening notes, the majority of this story is FAKE but elements within it are based on things that really do happen every day. Sex/ human trafficking is a problem around the world and police are finding increasing numbers of men and transgender people caught up in that hell along with the women and children. Unfortunately there is less understanding for what men and transgender people are going through and fewer laws protecting them from such crimes. That’s starting to change, but as with so many things, it’s slow. 
> 
> Below you will find links to articles and pages dealing with assorted topics dealt with in this story and for those who are interested even links to a public domain copy of the original _Count of Monte Cristo_. 
> 
> **Please note** that in many cases these articles are graphic in nature, many of the topics can be considered triggering, and pull very few punches when describing what happens to people caught in sex rings or abusive situations. They are important to read, but not pleasant (there’s a reason this story took so long to write and it wasn’t just my darn health). Please take care of yourself when clicking and reading. 
> 
>  
> 
> Sexual Slavery / Human Sex trafficking
> 
>  _Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, especially Women and Children_ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_trafficking  
>  The Protocol is the first global, legally binding instrument on trafficking in over half a century and the only one that sets out an agreed definition of trafficking in persons.
> 
> Human Trafficking in California Report http://ag.ca.gov/publications/Human_Trafficking_Final_Report.pdf
> 
> http://news.change.org/stories/men-trafficked-from-africa-to-scotland-for-sex  
> Article: The two men in question were trafficked from Africa (countries not specified) into Scotland separately. 
> 
>  
> 
> http://news.change.org/stories/spain-busts-rare-male-and-transgender-sex-trafficking-ring Article: Spanish police busted a massive sex trafficking ring this week and were surprised at what they found: 64 men and transgender persons trafficked into commercial sex. 
> 
> http://articles.sfgate.com/2006-10-06/news/17316911_1_trafficking-victims-human-trafficking-new-owners  
> Article: Many of San Francisco's Asian massage parlors -- long an established part of the city's sexually permissive culture -- have degenerated into something much more sinister: international sex slave shops.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5nuJHW7VDao&feature=youtu.be / The Voices of Change – Video 
> 
> Polaris Project a href="http://www.polarisproject.org
> 
> International Sanctuary http://www.isanctuary.org/ 
> 
> CAASE – Chicago Alliance Against Sexual Exploitation "http://caase.org/ 
> 
> The Somaly Mam Foundation http://www.somaly.org/ 
> 
> ZOE Children’s Homes http://zoechildren.org/ 
> 
>  
> 
> Sexual / Domestic abuse 
> 
> Rape Abuse and Incest National Network http://www.rainn.org/get-information/sexual-assault-recovery
> 
> Domestic Violence and Abuse – Signs of Abuse and Abusive Relationships  
> http://helpguide.org/mental/domestic_violence_abuse_types_signs_causes_effects.htm
> 
> LA Gay & Lesbian Center page on Domestic Violence http://laglc.convio.net/site/PageServer?pagename=YH_DV_Family_Violence_Partner_Abuse
> 
>  
> 
> Online version of the Count of Monte Cristo http://librivox.org/the-count-of-monte-cristo-by-alexandre-dumas
> 
>  
> 
> Count of Monte Cristo in movie form:
> 
> 2002 version staring Jim Caviezel, Guy Pearce and Richard Harris http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0245844/ 
> 
> 1975 version starting Richard Chamberlain, Trevor Howard and Louis Jourdan http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0072824/ 
> 
> 1934 version starting Robert Donat, Elissa Landi and Louis Calhern http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0025004/ 
> 
> And because I couldn’t possibly leave you without a bit of hope, here is Adam singing Aftermath from Ste. Agathe on 7/29/11 video by TALC-Luc 2Laugh77 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avqSOs4RMEo&feature=related


End file.
